


with blood and soft stitches

by bravestyles



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coma, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicide Attempt, mild descriptions of blood/injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:28:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 57,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25603570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravestyles/pseuds/bravestyles
Summary: After a failed suicide attempt and a three month long coma, Harry wakes up.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 134
Kudos: 380





	with blood and soft stitches

**Author's Note:**

> title: the pugilist - keaton henson
> 
> this story has been in my head for a long time and ive finally gotten it down into words. i hope you like it.
> 
> disclaimer: i don't own anyone/anything and don't claim any of this is true.

-

It’s all he can really think about anymore. 

He doesn’t want to be here anymore. It’s that simple. Sometimes, usually late at night with Louis less than an inch away from him in bed, he thinks it’s anything _but_ simple, that it’s this complicated thing that his brain is trying to minimize to make it seem less scary, but no. It’s not complicated. There’s nothing complicated about it: he doesn’t want to be here anymore. Here as in this life, here as in this industry, here as in this body. He doesn’t want it anymore. 

Of course ‘here’ also involves Louis. It involves his mum and his sister. It involves his friends that he loves and who love him. And of course those aren’t the parts he wants to lose; he doesn’t want those people, not even for a second, to think that what he’s going to do is their fault. It’s why he’s going to write a note, although he’s not sure that’ll be convincing enough. Harry fully understands that what he’s going to do is going to be a huge slap in the face to everyone he cares about, to everyone who he lied to all these past months when he acted happy and played along with everything. He’s aware of it, and there’s not a goddamn thing he can do about that, so he tries to ignore it. 

‘Here’ means his loved ones, and he knows that, but he can’t detach those things from the things he loathes, so it’s just how it has to be. It just is. He’s tried to separate those things, he has tried so goddamn hard, but it’s impossible, so fine. He supposes that’s fair enough. He should feel like he’s about to lose something in all this, too, especially when his family and his husband -- God, his _husband,_ poor fucking Louis -- are going to be losing something huge. 

He’s going to kill himself. 

‘Kill himself’ is the only phrase that feels like his. ‘Committed suicide’ will be used by the press, and it’ll eventually turn into ‘passed away’ when they try to erase what he did. ‘Offed himself’ will be used by those trying to rile up the fans, probably, and he doesn’t like the way it sounds, anyway. His mum will say that he ‘took his own life,’ and she’ll say it so sadly. She will, and it breaks his heart. ‘Kill himself’ is the only phrase that feels personal, feels like his, feels like he’s fessing up to it. He’s not going to take his own life, or off himself, or commit suicide, he’s going to kill himself, and there’s a difference. He’s not sure what it is, but to him, the difference is there nonetheless. 

He wonders which one Louis will have to say. 

-

Okay, it’s not that simple. He knows it’s not. He knows that he’s just really fucking scared and convincing himself that killing himself is this quick, easy process. Maybe the actual act will be, sure, but the days leading up to it will be surreal. He knows that Louis having to find him won’t be so simple. (That’s the one bit he can’t get over, Louis having to find him like that, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s still trying to get around that.) The clean-up process definitely won’t be quick or easy; there’s going to be so much blood. So, so much blood. And then the after, the parts that don’t involve him really at all; the funeral, the grieving, the mourning, the loss. . . He’s going to inflict the worst pain any of his family has had to feel onto them all, and he’s going to do it willingly. That’s not easy.

Ever since he set the date, though, it feels impossible to take it back. He’s been thinking about this for _months,_ and absolutely nothing has changed, and it’s time. It’s time. It has to be. 

The tenth of August will be his last day here. There’s no reason for that being the day, it sort of just happened. Feels like fate, almost. 

August tenth. 

-

He does end up getting around Louis having to be the one to find him. At least, he thinks he has. 

“It’s stupid they’re making you go to them,” Louis says when Harry tells him he has to fly out to London for a week for some industry thing he made up on the spot. He told him that Jeff told one of his friends that Harry would come and write a few songs for their new album, and they’re on a bit of a deadline, which is too bad, because the timeframe he’ll be gone for just so happens to be the same week as Louis’ meeting with one of the band’s higher-ups, so he won’t be able to come with. Louis’ always been much more invested in the business side of things than Harry has ever been, so it won’t be a big deal if Harry’s not around for it. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says. He can’t quite form a convincing smile, so he jokes, “Don’t they know who I am?”

Louis scoffs and hits him on the shoulder before leaning forward and kissing his cheek. He’s going to feel so dumb when it’s all over, when he realizes that Harry was lying straight to his face in order to avoid killing himself in their L.A. home. Harry feels awful about it. 

“Don’t go getting a big head on me,” Louis says, leaning back. “Can’t have you going off the rails just yet. The band’s still got a few years left.”

He feels sick to his stomach, but he’s done this so much with Louis before that he can easily create some stupid banter in his head. “And then I can go fling myself into the proper celebrity life, getting smashed on LSD and shit?”

Louis gives him one of those warm, fond smiles that he gives Harry when he’s being stupid but he’s cute enough to get away with it. Harry’s been getting them for years. “Yeah, and then you can go and do that. Not a minute before, though.”

“Fair enough,” Harry agrees, leaning back against his chair. He wishes it didn’t have to be like this. Now, since he created an excuse to get him out of Los Angeles, he only has two and a half more weeks with Louis. He’s flying out to London on the morning of the eighth, and that’s almost three whole days with Louis that he’s having to give up. That’s terrifying. 

Kind of a stupid thing to think when he’s giving up a lot more than three days with Louis, but he thinks it anyway. 

-

“Are you sure you’re alright? You seem weird today.”

And Louis’ definitely going to be thinking about this moment whenever he gets the call that Harry’s been found dead in their London home. Harry’s gut churns at the thought of Louis blaming himself, of thinking he could have done something to save him. He’ll add that to the note: _it’s not your fault. You couldn’t have done anything. Whatever your thinking, whatever signs you think you missed -- please don’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have done anything to stop this._

His note has gotten messier and messier since he initially wrote it. He keeps thinking of things he has to add, of words he wants to make sure he gets down before his time runs out. The other night while Louis was doing the laundry, Harry wrote down all his passwords to his phone and laptop and emails and social media, and whatever else he could think of. His loved ones might want that access as a form of closure, or maybe a way to remain close to him. He doesn’t know. All he knows is he doesn’t want to get in the way of their grieving. 

“I’m fine, Louis,” Harry whispers. He’s curled into him, his face pressed to Louis’ stomach. He’s going to miss him so much. Even if there’s no afterlife, Harry’s going to find a way to miss him. “Just nervous, I think. Don’t like writing with people I don’t know.”

“Then tell Jeff to stuff it,” Louis tells him. 

Harry shakes his head, closes his eyes. “I can’t. I already -- I already said I would.”

“You’ll be fine, babe. The songs don’t even have to be good, you know. It’s not for our album, so it doesn’t really matter.”

Despite how shitty he feels, Harry manages to laugh at that. “Yeah. You’re right.” 

He realizes, then, that Louis’ fingers have stopped moving through his hair, so he shifts his head in a way that tells Louis to get back to it. He does, and Harry slowly drifts off to sleep, even though he promised himself he’d stay up all night, getting every last moment with Louis that he could. 

He wakes about an hour later and Louis’ still awake, so not much time was lost. He uses what time he does have as deliberately as he can; they have sex and they cuddle and they go downstairs to make brownies, and then they cuddle some more. 

“Always so clingy,” Louis says to him just before they go to sleep together for the last time, when Harry’s draped over Louis’ lap and touching him in every way he can. Bruce and Clifford are with them in bed, too, and Harry _can’t_ think about leaving them. It hurts too bad. “Love you,” he says, softer. “Even if you are making my legs fall asleep.”

Harry snuggles into him closer. “I love you, too,” he says, just as softly. “So much.”

-

Harry boards his private jet at eight o’clock in the morning. He wanted something less personal than a private jet, wanted one less time flying with a group of strangers and getting to wonder what their plans are, but surely the gun stuffed in the bottom of his bag would have been found that way. 

-

On the tenth, eight hours before he has decided he’s going to kill himself, he gets a text from Ben. It makes his head hurt. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone today, not about trivial things. He’s planning on calling his mum at nine, an hour before he’s going to die, and then Louis right after. He’d call his sister, too, but he doesn’t want to make it look suspicious. 

_A wee little bird told me you’re in London,_ the text reads. _Dinner soon?_

Harry stares at that text with tears in his eyes and his thumbnail between his teeth. He’s going to hurt so many people. His entire life, he’s tried to hurt as few people as possible, and now he’s going to do this. He’s a terrible person. 

_Sure,_ he texts back, because he can’t make it look suspicious. _Tomorrow night?_

_Lovely. I’ll ask Meri to make a roast. I know how shit at cooking Louis is._

A sob explodes out of Harry, then, and he lowers himself to the ground. He feels so bad. He’s never felt this guilty in his entire life. He doesn’t want to hurt anybody, that’s not his intention. It’s not like that. He just wants to be gone. 

After a few minutes, he pulls himself off the floor and shuffles through his bag. He pulls the note out, which has gotten a little crumpled by now, and grabs a pen. _Ben, Meri,_ he writes, just under the name of the lawyer he got months ago to handle his will, _I’m sure the roast would have been wonderful._

The note is a mess by now. The initial message was a page and a half long, front and back, and now every bare spot left has been filled with some sort of scribble from him. _One last thing_ , he keeps thinking. Maybe he should rewrite it, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to change it. 

The conversation with his mother is brief. She has to go shopping. Apparently the cats are out of food. 

“Okay, okay,” he says after the third time she tells him that she really has to get going before the shops close. “Just -- I love you.”

“I love you, too, dear. Call me in the morning, okay?”

He scrubs a hand down his face. It’s freezing in the bathroom, where he decided he was going to do it. Shirtless, too. He couldn’t figure out what shirt he wanted to be wearing, so he just decided to go without one. His skin feels tight, but he doesn’t know if that’s from the cold or the panic clutching at his heart. 

“Yeah, Mum. Of course.”

“Alright, baby. Bye, love you.”

He clenches his eyes shut. “I love you, too. Bye, Mum.”

She hangs up first, and Harry forces himself to pull it together. He still has to call Louis, and Louis deserves a proper goodbye. Well, this isn’t a proper goodbye, either, but it’s the closest thing Harry can give him. He has to be level headed for it. 

Louis answers with a loud groan. “I’ve been proper missing you today, you know that?” Louis tells him. “It’s only the third day. You think that means we’re a gross old couple now?”

Harry closes his eyes again and forces himself to detach himself from the situation. From what’s about to happen next. “Guess so,” he says. After a moment, he shakes his head. “No. No. You’re not old.”

Louis’ only twenty-four. He’s still young. There’s enough time for him to get over Harry and find someone else, someone who won’t blow their brains out in the bathroom. 

God, he feels sick. The gun’s just sitting on the toilet seat. It doesn’t even look real. 

“I guess not,” Louis agrees. He sighs before asking, “How was it today, then? Write anything good?”

“Um, yeah. Yeah, a couple verses. Nothing too special, but.”

Harry’s heart falls to his stomach when Louis asks, “Do you feel okay? You don’t sound. . . I dunno. You just sound off.”

“I’m fine,” he says quickly, too quickly. Fucking shit. “Just tired. I’m just -- I’m just tired, Lou.”

“Are you sure?”

Harry can’t answer right away, because he has to pull the phone away so he can let out a quiet sob. He hates himself so much. He’s an awful person. 

“Yeah, babe,” he says once he thinks he’s gotten it together. His voice sounds scratchy, but he doesn’t think it sounds like he’s been crying. “I’m okay. I’m -- ” he lets out another silent sob, “I’m okay. How are -- how are you?”

“I talked to Ben earlier,” Louis tells him, but he doesn’t sound conversational, he sounds worried. Properly worried. Harry fucked up. “He said he was going to invite you ‘round for dinner. Why don’t you go over tonight?”

“I just wanna stay home, Lou.”

And that sounds pitiful and worrying, even to Harry. His voice sounds flimsy and a little broken, and he totally fucked this all up. 

“Harry,” Louis says sternly. “Tell me what’s wrong. You’re kind of freaking me out.”

“Nothing’s wrong, nothing -- I should go.”

“No,” Louis says quickly. “No, don’t. Stay with me. Please. Don’t hang up.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, Louis, I should go. Really. I’m tired. I’m so tired.”

“Hey,” Louis snaps. “Don’t -- are you drunk? Did you take something?”

Harry can’t quite figure out where he went wrong in this conversation, what tipped Louis off to panic this much. He’s fucking pissed at himself, though. Louis wasn’t supposed to have to worry like this. 

“I love you,” Harry forces himself to say. He has to finish this. “I love you, Louis. And I’m,” _don’t apologize, don’t apologize, that’ll definitely tip him off, don’t apologize, don’t apologize,_ “I’m so sorry,” he cries, and fucking shit. Fucking shit. He was stupid for thinking he could do this. “I’m sorry, Louis, I’m so sorry.”

“Harry,” Louis says, voice breaking and pleading. “Hey, please. We can figure this out. Whatever’s wrong, we can figure it out. Don’t -- I don’t -- what is even happening, love, can you just tell me what’s happening?”

“Nothing,” Harry lies. “Nothing. I just have to go, okay?”

“Don’t you dare. Don’t -- Harry. Love. Talk to me, please.”

“I have to go,” Harry repeats. “But I love you, alright? I love you. So much.”

As Harry hangs up, Louis’ harsh, piercing, “Harry, _wait,_ ” is the last thing he hears. He takes a deep breath and puts his phone beside him on the tub’s ledge. That wasn’t supposed to happen like that, but it’s okay. It has to be. There’s no going back from this. 

It’s 9:31. He has twenty-nine minutes left. So he sits there, shivering under the bright light of the bathroom, and thinks. About nothing particular. He thinks about how the press will eat this up. About the one sock in his bag that he somehow lost the match to. About how his mum is at the store right now, looking at the brands of cat food. About how they’re supposed to go on tour again in three months. About how this house has the dark wood that Harry likes. About how odd the constant vibration of his phone sounds against the tub. 

At 9:48, there’s a loud knock on what he suspects is the front door. He jumps in panic, and immediately, he grabs for the gun. Absolutely not. They’re not taking this away from him. 

It’s not time yet, though. It’s not time. He’s supposed to have twelve more minutes. 

The panic gets a million times worse when he hears the front door open. Jesus Christ, he doesn’t know who that is, but -- but no, no, no. _No._ God no. 

Shaking and crying, he presses the gun’s nozzle against his temple. He didn’t want to do this with a fucking audience. 

“Harry?”

It’s Ben. Louis must’ve called him. 

“Harry, where are you? Louis said you -- ”

He doesn’t pause to hear what Louis said, and he doesn’t even fully process that he’s about to do it before he pulls the trigger.

\------------

**_ONE DIRECTION STAR HARRY STYLES RUSHED TO HOSPITAL AFTER A REPORTED SUICIDE ATTEMPT_ **

**_HARRY STYLES IN CRITICAL CONDITION AFTER CONFIRMED SUICIDE ATTEMPT: ‘PREPARE FOR THE WORST’_ **

**_LIAM PAYNE ON BANDMATES SUICDE ATTEMPT: ‘UNEXPECTED,’ ‘HEARTBREAKING,’ ‘SHOCKING’_ **

**_ONE DIRECTION RELEASES STATEMENT ONE MONTH INTO STYLES’ COMA: IS THIS THE END OF ONE DIRECTION?_ **

\------------

Cigarette smoke has to have the most distinctive smell in the whole world. It’s familiar, though. It feels warm, almost. 

It smells like vanilla. Like one of his candles. He doesn’t know if it actually is.

Shaving cream. That’s definitely the smell of shaving cream. 

He doesn’t like that smell. He doesn’t know what is, can’t make it out, but it’s all-consuming and disgusting. He can’t get away from it. Why can’t he get away from it?

\------------

“. . . brain activity doesn’t tell us much. He’s still breathing on his own, which is a very good sign. I can’t promise you anything other than he’s in the best care and that our staff will continue looking after him. . . “

“. . . can let go. If you have to, if you’re in too much pain, you can let go. I won’t be mad. I promise I won’t be. I don’t want you hurting. If you have to let go, you can. . . “

“. . . you remember that? I think it was when we got our house in Los Angeles. You were so happy, then. You were singing that Joni Mitchell song when you were putting together the dresser. . . ‘ _’Cause you’re a rambler and a gambler, and a sweet-talking-ladies’ man. And you love your lovin’_. . . I think it goes something like that, doesn’t it? I don’t know. You’d have to tell me.”

“. . . I’ve got a plummer coming by Tuesday. Quite a boring thing to tell you, I’m sorry. But I have to be there to take care of everything, okay? So don’t be upset that I’m gone. I’ll be back Wednesday, and I can tell you all about what it is that clogged my kitchen sink.”

\------------

There’s something repeatedly happening to his calf. He can’t figure out what it is. It feels wet, almost, but not enough to be water. Damp. It’s going in circles. He wishes it would stop. It’s hurting his brain trying to figure out what it is. 

Someone’s holding his hand. It feels so nice. Warm and gentle and supportive. And their thumb is stroking the back of his hand. For a moment, he thinks they’re wearing a wedding ring, until he realizes that it’s his. 

His feet are suddenly cold. Someone’s touching them, doing something to them. It’s weird. And then something -- a sock, he realizes -- is put over his left foot, and then the right. Whoever it is makes sure to straighten out the seam so it isn’t uncomfortable, and then they squeeze his foot. 

There’s a hand running through his hair. It feels so nice. They’re scratching and pulling light enough for it to be what Harry likes. And they don’t stop, which Harry is thankful for. He’s not sure how he would ask them so start up again. 

\------------

It’s dark. It’s so dark. The only light is peering through the door. It makes him panic slightly; he doesn’t like it this dark. They always keep the door open. Why did Louis shut the door before he came to bed? He should know by now that Harry likes it open. 

Someone’s flicking with the lights. He should recognize her, he knows he should recognize her, but he can’t. She flicks the light off and on again before someone wearing scrubs walks through the door and scolds her. She stops, and the lights stay on. 

Louis’ crying. He’s sitting with his knees pulled to his chest and his forehead pressed to his knee, and he’s crying. He looks so small. Harry wonders what he’s crying about. 

The wall of the room is covered in cards. They’re taped neatly, side by side, filled with color. There’s flowers, too, fresh ones. And a teddy bear is sitting in the chair next to him. Harry tries to make out what the cards say, but the only one he can make out is one that says in giant, red letters, _“Get Better Soon, Harry!!!”_

\------------

The door opens. Someone wearing scrubs comes in, and she’s finishing up a conversation with someone in the hallway. He doesn’t know who, and she speaks too quickly for him to process the words.

“Hello, Harry,” she says to him as she pulls gloves on. “It’s quite warm out today. All the kids are begging to go outside. It’s nice for this time of year.”

Something isn’t right. _Nothing_ feels right. The way his brain is processing things seems so delayed, and a headache is growing around his eyes. And he can’t figure out where he is or who she is or why warm weather is nice for June.

“I’m going on vacation for Thanksgiving with my American friends early, so I’m going to be gone this weekend,” she says. “So James’ll look after you on the night shifts until I get back.”

It’s definitely not June, then, unless she’s taking a ridiculously early holiday. 

His eyes hurt, and he’s so tired. 

“Alright, I’m going to change your blankets for you.” As she untucks the blankets from under him, she smiles at him. She’s got nice teeth. “You have nice eyes, you know.” She pulls the blanket off of him, and he’s instantly cold, and he hates it so much. He just wants to be comfortable and feel secure when everything else feels so off. 

She takes the blanket to a cart he only now just realizes she brought with her and puts it on the lowest rack. She grabs a fresh one off the top, and as she does so, she glances at him. For some reason, she pauses for a moment before slowly standing up with the blanket and walking towards the other side of his bed. 

She looks confused as she sets the blanket on top of him and grabs something from behind him. It’s a clipboard that she reads from for a few seconds before looking back at him. 

“Follow my finger with your eyes if you can, okay?” she tells him, and she sounds so gentle and caring that he does so without thinking why. His eyes hurt as he follows her finger, and they feel strained in a way that he’s completely unfamiliar with. “That’s. . . good,” she says, sounding confused still. “That’s -- it doesn’t say in your chart that you’ve been responding to your surroundings, I don’t. . .” She smiles down at him. “Let me get this blanket on you and I’ll go fetch a doctor, okay?”

She tucks him back in with the blanket, and he falls asleep right after she says she’ll be right back. 

-

The next time he’s awake -- actually awake, however loosely that term can be used, it’s him right now -- Louis’ in the room talking to a doctor, and he looks nervous. 

“But he’s awake?” Louis keeps asking, and the doctor keeps telling him no, not really. But Harry _feels_ awake. Mentally, at least. He feels completely disconnected from his body, but he’s far too tired to try and deal with that or figure out what it might mean. His brain isn’t working properly, can’t keep up with everything going on. 

“He has seemingly moved to a minimally conscious state, meaning he might be able to communicate with us a bit better, but he’s not yet out of the coma completely,” the doctor says. “He might be barely coherent, or maybe not. We don’t know yet.”

Louis’ wringing his hands. “Can I talk to him, then? Will he -- can he respond?”

“We don’t know yet. Try it when he wakes up. I think it’d be best if we started off small; ask him to blink for you. Once for yes, twice for no.”

It doesn’t feel like he’s talking about them. Part of Harry thinks no, surely they can’t be, he’s fine. Another part of him knows that he’s very much not fine. He doesn’t know if it’s denial or confusion or both. 

“Well how do I know if he’s awake?” Louis asks. “I mean, what does that even mean? Kind of awake, but not really, what. . .” He runs his hands through his hair and lets out a sad sound. “I just want him back. He doesn’t deserve this. He didn’t -- he didn’t ask for this.”

The doctor looks sympathetic. “I know, Mr. Tomlinson. I know how hard this can be. But try to keep in mind that this is the news you’ve been waiting for for a while. It’s. . . there’s going to be a long road ahead of him, and we’re not out of the woods yet, but try to focus on the present.”

She leaves, thank God. Harry just wants Louis. He really, really wants Louis, and it makes him the most desirous to move than he has since he’s been awake, but he can’t. He can’t. He doesn’t know what that means, but he can’t. 

So he tries to say something. Can’t do that, either. 

Finally, Louis looks at him. Slowly, like he’s scared he’s going to be disappointed. When he sees Harry’s eyes open, his face softens. 

“Hi, love,” he whispers, coming closer. He sits on the edge of Harry’s bed and grabs his hand. “Hi, baby. Are you awake? Can you hear me?”

Once for yes, twice for no. 

Harry blinks once. It takes far too much effort to be normal, and he can’t tell if his eyes are burning because he’s tired or if he’s about to cry.

“Oh, babe, _shit_ ,” Louis whispers. He scoots closer so he can wrap him in a hug. Somehow, the loosest, most one-sided hug he’s ever received is also the best one he’s ever gotten. He smells like cigarette smoke, and Harry wants to bury his face in Louis’ neck, in that smell, and he can’t. 

He does cry, then, and he only knows he’s crying because Louis pulls back and wipes his tears for him. 

“How are you feeling?” Louis asks him. There’s a brief pause of silence before Louis shakes his head at himself. “Are you feeling okay, I mean?”

Harry blinks twice.

“God, love, I don’t,” Louis’ crushing his hand again, “I don’t know what to say, okay, so forgive me if I’m doing a bad job at this. Just. . . are you tired?”

Blinks once. It’s getting harder to do that. 

“Okay. Okay, that’s okay. Does your head hurt at all?”

Yes, he has the headache the size of Texas. He blinks once, and Louis’ face drops. 

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I think I should tell a doctor that.”

And no, Harry doesn’t want doctors. He doesn’t want anyone other than Louis. He wants familiarity and comfort and security, and doctors can’t give him that. They can’t give him any of that. 

He tries to blink twice, tries to communicate that he doesn’t want doctors, but his eyes stay shut after the first blink. He’s too tired for this. Far too tired. 

Louis’ worried look is the last thing he sees before he goes back to sleep. 

-

Days pass exactly like that. He’s not sure how many in a row, but there’s a lot, and there’s about a fifty-fifty ratio of days he’s coherent for some time to days he’s completely out. It’s beyond frustrating and scary, and Harry feels so vulnerable every time he’s awake and Louis’ not there. It’s the worst feeling in the world, even worse than how scared he feels when they run their tests on him. 

One day, they tell Louis they’re going to take him for an MRI, and panic sets fire to Harry’s body. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want that at all, and somehow he can’t say no or do anything to try and stop them. Absolutely nothing at all. 

“They’re going to take you for a test, love,” Louis tells him, stroking his hair. “It’ll be over in no time, okay? Maybe try and sleep while you’re in there.”

Harry has a hard time remembering anything from when he’s awake, but he does remember the last time Louis told him something was okay, he had a bunch of shit put on his head and the doctors called it a test and Harry felt trapped and defenseless and terrified. 

“We’re going to lift him,” someone says, and only then does Harry see the stretcher in the room and no, no, Harry doesn’t want to go, especially if Louis’ not coming with, this is unfair. This is so unfair, this isn’t fucking right, they shouldn’t just get to take him. 

Every fiber of his being screams with protest when two nurses pick him up and put him on the stretcher, and yet not a single inch of him moves. 

The feeling of being rolled somewhere makes him feel nauseous, and paired with the blinding, moving lights, it’s enough for Harry to genuinely think he’s going to be ill. He closes his eyes and tries to calm down, tries to tell himself it’s alright, but the next time he opens them he’s in a loud, scary machine, and he starts to cry. Silent, ignored tears fall down his cheeks, and they don’t stop until Louis’ with him in bed, holding him close and whispering so many things to him that Harry can’t keep up with. 

That’s another scary thing: sometimes Louis talks to him and he has absolutely no idea what he’s saying. Sometimes he can’t hear it and sometimes he can and just can’t make it out. He doesn’t know which is worse. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Louis tells him quietly. “So is everyone else. We all see you fighting, love.”

Harry can’t do anything other than stare.

-

Every time he’s awake and it’s a new day, they try to get him to do certain tasks. That’s how he tries to keep track of the days, but it’s impossible. His brain is too foggy to remember how many times he’s woken up only to have someone asking him to wiggle his toes or swallow or curl his fingers. 

“Can you try and squeeze my hand, love?” Louis asks him one morning. The light coming in from the window is bright enough for Harry to tell that it’s morning. “Just try for me, okay?’

Harry tries, he really does, but he can’t do it. 

“Are you trying?”

He blinks once. 

“Okay, that’s okay,” Louis whispers to him. He presses a soothing kiss to Harry’s forehead. “How about lifting a finger, can you do that?”

He tries to do that, too, tries to lift his pointer finger off the bed, and he can’t. 

He blinks twice. 

Louis’ quiet for a second, face drawn up in worry, before he smooths it over and asks, “Can you do anything? Whatever feels easiest to you, just try it for me.”

All he can do is blink, cry, swallow and breathe on his own, and Louis’ already seen him do all that stuff, so no, he can’t do anything else.

“Alright, that’s okay.” Louis always sounds so patient, so gentle. It’s the only thing keeping Harry calm in this. Louis lets go of his hand for a moment to dig through a bag he brought that’s on the ground, and he pulls a phone out of it. “This is your phone,” he tells him. Harry didn’t know that. “We’re going to try and look through some pictures, okay? Just to. . . I don’t know. The doctors said it’d be good for you.”

Harry blinks once. He’s so tired.

The first picture Louis shows him is the homescreen, which is a picture of the two of them. . . somewhere. He doesn’t know where. As he tries to figure it out, Louis grabs his hand.

“Do you know who that is?” He sounds so scared, so unsure, like Harry’s head is so broken that he wouldn’t be able to recognize Louis in a picture while he’s sitting right next to him. Or maybe he’s worried Harry won’t be able to recognize himself. 

Harry blinks once, hard. 

“Good. Do you know where we are?”

No. No, he doesn’t have a clue. He blinks twice, and he already feels like he’s going to cry. 

“We’re at your uncle’s house. It was around Christmas time. Do you remember that?”

And the terrifying thing is, Harry knows he has an uncle. He knows that, and yet he can’t remember his name or his face or anything about him. He quickly blinks twice. What is happening to him?

“That’s okay, it was a few years back.” He taps a few times on his phone -- no, it’s Harry’s, shit, he already forgot -- and swipes a time or two before turning the phone back to Harry. “Do you know who this is?”

It’s a picture of a woman with pale skin and brown hair, and his first reaction is to think yes, he knows her. Of course he knows her. But when he tries to think of a name, he comes up empty. He doesn’t know how he knows her. 

He blinks three times as an ‘I don’t know.’

That’s bad. Him not being able to immediately recognize her is bad, he can tell by Louis’ face. “That’s your sister, baby. See?” He zooms into her face more. “That’s your sister, love.”

Of course it is. Of course that’s his sister. It connects now, in his head, that he’s looking at his sister. Briefly, he feels better, and then Louis asks him if he knows her name, and holy crap, how could he forget?

He doesn’t tell Louis no. He can’t admit to that. Of course he knows her name, that’s his sister for God’s sake, but. . . 

“Gemma,” Louis says softly. “Her name is Gemma, baby.”

Harry blinks once. Yes, he knew that. Of course he knew that. Gemma, his sister. His sister is named Gemma. He _knows_ that.

He’s already positively freaked out, and it only gets so much worse when Louis swipes to another picture and a bloke with blonde hair is smiling at him, and Harry _doesn’t know who that is._

Louis must be able to tell that he doesn’t know, because he doesn’t bother asking. “That’s Niall,” he says, and he sounds a little sad. “You know who Niall is, right, baby?”

He blinks once, even though he doesn’t quite know. Niall rings a bell. His face rings a bell. But Harry doesn’t know who he is to him, how they know each other. 

“I’m just going to show you a few more people and tell you about them, okay?” Louis tells him, squeezing his hand. “This is too hard for you. Must be too early. But that’s okay, you hear me?”

It doesn’t _feel_ very okay, but Harry blinks once regardless. 

He swipes to a picture of a dog, and immediately, Harry recognizes that as Clifford. He feels on top of the world, then, and he blinks once, hard, and Louis laughs quietly. 

“Of course you know who that oaf is,” he says happily. “I’m gonna tell him that, he’ll be very pleased.”

The victorious feeling fades quickly when a new face is staring at him and he hasn’t got a clue who she is. Louis tells him that’s his little sister, and Harry’s back to being frustrated. 

That goes on for a little while longer, Louis swiping through the pictures in his phone and telling Harry who the people are, and what place the picture was taken in, and what happened that day. It becomes less frustrating and more calming when Louis stops asking him who they are; this way, he can focus solely on Louis’ voice and the weight of his hand in his and the things he is telling him. 

After what feels like forever, Louis tells him they’ll take a break. “I’ll turn on a show, okay? One that you like.” Before grabbing the remote, he messes with Harry’s bed so he’s sitting up a little more. “There,” he says softly, and then grabs the remote and clicks through a few of the channels. 

Harry doesn’t even try to make sense of the show that Louis turns on, he just stares at it. His head is doing that thing again where he can hear the noise, but he can’t make it out and it all sounds sort of underwater. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes before someone walks in, saying they’re going to turn Harry on his side. They do this sometimes. Harry hasn’t been able to figure out why, but they move him around all the time. It’s uncomfortable and straining when they move him about, because even though they try to be gentle sometimes Harry’s elbow knocks into something or his neck feels strained or the blanket’s wrapped around his leg or the tube that’s near his legs gets tangled. 

Thankfully, when Louis’ here, he always makes sure Harry’s comfortable the best he can. He asks him what feels nice and what doesn’t, and Harry does his best to communicate what he wants through blinking. 

-

His mum is finally allowed to see him two weeks into him being like. . . this. Half-awake, half-not. He doesn’t know why it took them so long to allow it. Louis told him, but he forgot. 

Her presence is much more overwhelming for Harry than Louis’ is. It almost feels like too much, for some reason. His mum cries and talks a lot and touches him all over, and Harry just lies there staring and feeling awful. He’s happy to see her, he is, it’s just. . . With Louis, it feels like he’s not asking Harry of anything that he can’t give to him. With his mum, it feels like she’s praying for him to squeeze her back or waiting for him to say something. 

The headache is constant, but sometimes it’s better than other times. Right now, with his mum wiping at his mouth and saying something he can’t make out, it hurts more than normal. It’s not anything too severe, but it does add to the fogginess in his head. 

“Anne,” he hears Louis say softly. “It’s touch-and-go. He might not be with us right now. Don’t take it personally."

There’s some more blurry words exchanged before Harry can make out his mum asking, “Why is he drooling so much?”

Louis sighs and grabs a tissue off the table. He wipes at Harry’s mouth before giving him a small smile and swiping his finger down his nose. “I think it’s just the way he’s laying,” Louis says as he sits back down. “He’s usually better about swallowing.”

Harry falls back to sleep. 

-

He doesn’t put two and two together that the tube that he always feels against his legs is attached to a catheter until, somehow, it leaks and his thighs are wet and sticky and his room smells like urine. 

He lays there for hours like that, just laying there in the dark with his own piss on him. Nobody checks on him until it’s morning and Louis is pushing open his door with a smile on his lips. 

He stops smiling as soon as he realizes there’s tears running down Harry’s cheeks. “What’s the matter, love?” he asks softly, shutting the door behind him before coming to sit next to Harry. “Do you feel okay, H?”

This is humiliating. Should be, anyway. He’s long passed the point of embarrassment; he just wants a fresh pair of pants now. And he wants to be able to tell Louis that, and he can’t. 

“Hey, what is it? It’s okay.” He presses a warm kiss to Harry’s temple, and Harry lets out a breathy little cry. “Is it your head?”

Harry blinks twice, tears clouding his vision. God, how can Louis not _smell_ it?

And then he does. Harry can see it on his face, can see it on the twitch of his nose, and Harry keeps crying and crying. Louis doesn’t look disgusted, though. He doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he looks relieved. 

“Oh, love,” he says gently. “It’s fine. Totally okay. I’ll call a nurse.” He presses the call button and starts to take the blankets off of Harry, all the while Harry lets out tiny cries. 

They get him cleaned up before picking him up and getting him comfortable on a comfy couch in the corner of his room. It’s not as supportive as the bed is, and his limbs feel more flimsy than normal (which is a weird observation to make, considering he has absolutely no control of them at all, whether he’s on the bed or not); Louis helps him feel more secure by keeping a hand on his knee and shoulder as he sits on the arm of the chair. It sucks, though, because he can’t even keep his head up. It’s just kind of flopped against his shoulder. 

“He told me he was like that for a few hours,” Louis tells the nurse, who’s cleaning his bed and changing the sheets. “I don’t like that.”

At least the nurse has the decency to look guilty. “We were short-staffed last night, and he got checked-in on one less time than normal. I’m sorry. Really.”

Louis squeezes Harry’s knee. “Well, hopefully we’ll get him able to press the call button here shortly.”

That sounds completely impossible, and the nurse must agree because all he does is give Louis a tight smile. 

After a few minutes, the nurse is finished with his bed and then he’s getting picked up again and being placed back into bed. Louis pets his hair and talks to him softly about his mum while the nurse re-inserts the catheter, probably trying to keep him comfortable, which doesn’t exactly work.

When the nurse finally leaves, Louis kisses him on the lips before turning to grab the large teddy bear off the side table and tucks it in next to Harry. It should be a little stupid, or at least make him feel chilidsh, but it doesn’t. It makes him feel loved and looked after. 

-

It takes him a whole month to be able to curl his fingers to his fist, and he can only do it on his left hand, but it’s a win. It’s such a big win, not only for him, but for his family, too. He’s only been allowed to see Louis, his mum and Gemma so far (because he gets overwhelmed easily, because he hasn’t demanded to see anyone else, because they don’t want to mess with his head). He can hold Louis’ hand back now, and it means Louis has to start sitting on the left side of the bed when normally he sits on the right, but it’s more than okay. 

He can’t squeeze his fist, and he can’t pick anything up, and his hand gets tired extremely quickly when they make him exercise it by curling his fingers and stretch them out over and over and over again. All of that sucks, but he can curl his fingers now. He can finally do _something_ with his body. 

And now he can press the nurse call button, which proves extremely helpful when he shits the bed one night. He thought he had a tube in or something, thought that if he hadn’t, he would have done this by now, but apparently not and apparently he has and just doesn’t remember, which is. . . probably for the best. 

Five days after he manages to curl his left hand’s fingers, he manages to turn his head to the side. Another win. If only he could manage to keep his fucking head up -- not being able to drives him insane. 

As Harry’s fingers start to cooperate with him more, their blinking system turns to a tapping one. He taps once for yes, twice for no, and three times if he’s unsure. It’s so much easier. 

“Are you bored of this?” Louis asks him one day, motioning to the TV. A black and white movie is playing; lately, Harry has been able to retain information a bit better and he can usually keep up with a TV show, but not this one, not this morning. Some days are better than others. 

Harry taps once. Maybe if Louis turns something else on, something Harry likes, he’ll be able to keep up with it more. 

“Okay,” Louis says, grabbing the remote. “I want you to change the channel for us, okay? I’ll help, but you’ve got to push the buttons.”

Louis’ very gentle in the way he grabs Harry’s left hand and puts the remote in it. Harry tries to get a good grasp on it, but it’s hard, so Louis positions his fingers in a way that he has a hold on it and also has his finger on the channel up button. 

“Just click it, okay? I don’t care how long it takes, just click it when you can. And I’ll tell you what program is on so you know if you want to stop or not.”

Okay. Harry can do that. He can. 

Pressing down on the button once takes some effort, more than it should, and it takes him to a news channel, so he has to click again. He does, and it’s _Hollywood Access._

“We’re not going to watch that,” Louis tells him, and he presses the button up for him. It’s a poker game. No, Harry hates poker. His hand is getting sore, but he doesn’t stop. 

_Wendy Williams_. Again, Louis presses the channel up button for him. _Law & Order. _No; Harry presses the up button again. 

He’s close to quitting when he gets to a baking channel, and finally he stops it there. Louis smiles down at him and runs his fingers across Harry’s jaw. “Yeah? You want to watch this?”

Harry taps his finger once. 

“Okay, we can do that. Good job, love. Proud of you.”

Harry manages to watch eleven minutes of the program before he falls asleep. 

-

The more and more function of his body he takes back, the more and more physical therapy they want him to do, and he _loathes_ it. It makes him sore and exhausted, and they ask him to do things that he _can’t_ , and they tell him he has to try, like he isn’t. He _is_ trying, it’s just _hard_. 

It’s been seven weeks since Harry has taken his first step back into the land of the living, and it’s exhausting. He still can’t talk. He tries, and he’s better at making noises now, but getting his brain to work with his body is a difficult task. They’ve been working with him on that, too. On a more positive note, he can finally keep his head up on his own. Not for long periods of time, but he can do it. 

Sometimes Louis’ with him during the physical therapy, sometimes he’s not. His mum offers to stay with him when Louis can’t, which Harry objects to every time. It’s embarrassing and he doesn’t want her there. 

Six days ago, someone new to Harry’s recovery team came in his room to do his daily physical therapy. His name was Mitchell, and Mitchell wasn’t familiar with Harry’s non-verbal signals, or he was just shit as his job, because he pushed Harry so much passed his limits that Harry exploded into a fit of sobs, the hardest he’s cried since he’s woken up, and he couldn’t be calmed down until Louis came in and coddled him. 

It was just. . . being told to do something as simple as turn his ankle and struggling to do it is already difficult enough, and someone being a hardass about it made it about a million times worse. 

Louis has made sure to be there for every physical therapy session since. 

Today, his favorite person came into today, a nice woman named Katherine who jokes with him and who is about the most patient and gentle person Harry has ever meant. He makes the most progress with her, too. Today he managed to lift his left forearm off the bed and keep it in the air for six seconds. 

(The right side of his body, from his shoulder right down to his toes, is weaker than his left side. With his left hand, he can squeeze things and grasp light objects and move his fingers with ease. With his right hand, he only managed to curl his fingers two day ago. He’s not paralyzed on that side, thank God, but it’s taking a bit longer to catch up. They tell him it’s okay, that it’s still early.)

Since Harry’s in a good mood after Katherine leaves, Louis takes it upon himself to keep it up. He sits on the bed beside Harry and hands him his phone. 

“Want you to try and text your mum, okay?” Louis tells him gently. He leans his head against Harry’s shoulder as he puts the phone under Louis’ left hand. “If we can get you to do this, you can text me when I’m not here.”

And that sounds amazing, so Harry makes a shaky thumbs up before clicking open the phone. He doesn’t know his password, so Louis quickly puts it in for him, saying he’ll take it off for him later on. 

It’s a bit tricky, but they figure it out. Louis makes the text as big as it can go so Harry can see what he’s typing better, since he can’t quite manage to hold it up just yet, and Harry takes about five whole minutes just to type out ‘Hi mUM XXX’ and a whole minute to press send, but he does it. And when she texts back, Louis makes it so his phone will read it out to him. Harry, easy to cry as ever, sniffles a bit and Louis kisses the side of his head.

He goes to the notes app, then, and feels satisfied knowing that he remembers where it is. Louis watches him silently, and Harry only has two letters, an ‘L’ and an ‘o’ typed out before Louis says, “I love you, too, baby. So much.” He kisses his cheek several times and squeezes his arm. “I hope you realize that I love you more than anything in the whole world.”

Harry taps his finger once, saying yes, he does know that, and Louis doesn’t smile, he kind of just looks sad. After about a minute, he says, “A therapist is going to come in and see you tomorrow, okay?”

Harry types out the letter _y_.

“Because it’s important,” Louis says, almost angrily. Harry doesn’t understand it, but doesn’t dwell on it because Louis presses an apologetic kiss to his shoulder. “Your mental health is just as important as your physical health. Maybe more, I don’t know. But she’s just going to talk to you a bit, now that we have a better idea on how you can communicate.”

Harry tries typing something else out, but he struggles with it. Thankfully, Louis gets the bright idea to download a drawing app to his phone so he can write out his responses. He still can’t quite hold a marker steady enough to write, but he can do this. The handwriting is messy as shit and hard to read, but Louis works it out. 

_About what,_ he writes in a thin blue font. 

Louis pauses before saying, “I think we’re going to start off with how much you remember.”

Harry tries to think. Nothing jumps out at him, not important and nothing whole. There’s a flash of a memory in which he and Louis are playing with the dogs outside, but there’s snow outside, and surely that’s not he’s last memory. He doesn’t know how long he was gone for, but he knows it hasn’t been that long. 

He remembers thinking it was June when he first woke up, so he sloppily writes that out. It’s hard to read, and Harry doesn’t think Louis’ going to be able to. He does, somehow. 

“June?”

Harry taps once. 

“You don’t. . . um. You don’t remember anything in August?”

Harry taps his finger three times. He doesn’t think so, but he can’t know for certain. 

“Oh. Oh, okay. That’s. . . you’ll talk about it more with Claire tomorrow, okay? That’s her name.”

Harry taps his finger once, and Louis doesn’t say anything else after that. 

-

Claire is kind and patient and determined. She’s kind of like Katherine, which is why it doesn’t surprise him when Louis tells him that he picked someone Harry thought he’d get on with. She asks him loads of questions, some hard and some easy, and he tries his best to answer them. 

Louis stays in the room, watching a movie on his laptop to give Harry some privacy while also staying close. He has a tight hold on Harry’s right hand that doesn’t waver the entire two hours Claire talks to him. 

She starts off by asking him easy questions. Does he know who he is, where he is, what he’s here for. Does he know who Louis is. He answers those easily, and slowly, the questions get gradually harder. He doesn’t know what his last memory is. He doesn’t know what day it is; Louis usually tells him when he gets in every morning, but he’s forgotten. He doesn’t know the name of the hospital, which is stupid, because he’s been told it about a million times. 

“How are you feeling about everything?” she asks. “Are you stressed?”

He taps once. His brain is broken; of course he’s stressed. 

“Do you find yourself getting easily frustrated?”

He taps once again. 

“Do you feel hopeless? Like maybe what’s the point of trying to get better?”

That throws him off guard. That sounds. . . dark. So dark he doesn’t want to say yes to it, so he just taps that he doesn’t know. He wants to get better, he does, it’s just. . . he’s tired, and it feels impossible. 

Louis’ staring at his hand intently, and he just saw Harry admit that he didn’t know, and he looks upset. Harry regrets it immediately, and he tries to take it back. He taps twice; no, he doesn’t feel hopeless. No, he doesn’t think there’s not a point to getting better. He doesn’t want Louis upset with him. 

“You have to be honest with me, Harry. Louis’ not going to be mad. He just wants to see you better.”

His finger shaking more than normal, he writes out the word _hard_ on his phone. Claire reads it and asks, “It’s hard to be honest?”

Harry taps twice. No, that’s not -- fucking shit, this is hard. He tries to write out _work,_ as in _hard work_ , but he ends up only getting the letters _‘wor’_ out and the _‘k’_ doesn’t fit. 

“Are you trying to say it’s hard work?” Louis asks, and Harry taps his finger once, relieved that Louis understands him. 

“Oh, I see,” Claire says. “But do you want to get better?”

He taps once. Yeah, he does. He wants to be home, even if his brain can’t give him a picture of what home looks like. 

There’s about a half hour more of back-and-forth before Claire asks if he remembers how he ended up in the hospital, and he taps no. He has no clue. He knows that Louis has told him what his injuries are, that his head got properly fucked up, but he forgets all the specifics after a day or two. He’s sure Louis has told him how he got in here before and he just doesn’t remember. The doctor’s don’t seem worried about Harry’s short-term memory loss. They say it’ll most likely get better over time, so Harry tries not to get worked up over it. 

“That’s okay,” Claire tells him. “Tell me about something you do remember.”

He writes out four key words of that memory that keeps flashing in his head: ‘Louis’, ‘dogs’, ‘snow’, ‘play.’ The words are incredibly sloppy, and he’s completely ready for her to tell him that she can’t read it, but she nods with a small smile and tells him that she likes to play with her dog, too. 

Afterwards, Harry realizes he doesn’t remember if she told him how he wound up here or not, but he’s too embarrassed to ask her to repeat herself, so he leaves it be. 

“Do you remember that you’re in a band?” she asks him at one point, and for a second, Harry looks at her like she’s crazy, but -- yeah. He is. He remembers that now, and he remembers Louis telling him about it a few days ago. Every time he’s reminded of it, loads of memories stick out, it’s just that he forgets quickly. 

“I’m glad to hear that,” she says, when he taps once. Louis’ grinning, too. 

-

Everybody is doing their best to keep Harry calm and happy, and that’s why his visitors have been so limited and his physicians have to be so nice. They don’t want to stress him out, not even a little bit, when it isn’t necessary. And when Harry gets moved around, whether it be for tests in another room or an experimental trip to the toilet that absolutely failed, Harry gets a terrible headache from everything moving, so when the doctor tells Louis he can take Harry around the hospital in a wheelchair if he wants, Harry’s surprised and beyond excited. 

“What if he gets a headache?” Louis asks, concerned.

“We have to try and get him desensitized to things,” she tells Louis. Harry can never fucking remmeber her name. Claire and Katherine he knows, but her, the person he’s been seeing since day one -- he has no clue. “It’s been eight weeks since he woke up. We have to start taking risks. Small ones, of course. If he’s in pain, take him back to his room and get me, but if it’s just a little headache, I’d say we’re okay.”

Louis drops his voice. “I don’t want his brain hemorrhaging again,” he whispers, and Harry hasn’t got a clue what that means, but it sounds bad, so he doesn’t want that to happen again, either. 

The doctor smiles. “Neither do I, Mr. Tomlinson. But if it does, which is a very low possibility, he’s in the right place.”

Louis scoffs. “Yeah, that’s not very comforting, but thank you.” He doesn’t seem to be actually cross with her because he pats her elbow before he turns to Harry and asks, “Alright, you ready to go for a drive or what?”

Getting Harry in a wheelchair is a feat, although it’s easier now that it would have been a little while ago. Harry can actually be of at least a little assistance, and he can hang onto Louis more now (not much, but some; his strength is still shit). Once he’s seated, he’s a little breathless so they give him some time to relax. Just before they leave, Harry grabs the teddy bear off Harry’s bed that Harry’s been sleeping with every night. Louis doesn’t stay with him at night unless Harry asks him to, so it’s been nice to have a friend. 

“He deserves a change of scenery, too,” Louis tells him as he gets him situated under Harry’s arm. Harry squeeze its paw, and then they’re off. 

The hospital is posh as fuck, Harry notices quite quickly. The furniture looks expensive and comfortable, and the wood and marble everywhere look high-end. There are a lot of paintings and plants, too, and Louis stops him at a few of the paintings and points to his favorite parts. 

Harry wishes he could talk. He’s getting there, people keep telling him. He’s better at making noises that indicate yes and no and frustration, and he can mostly laugh right, but that’s all. Whenever he tries, his brain kind of just whites out. It’s too big of an ask from it right now, apparently. 

They’re still exploring the floor Harry’s room is on when a headache starts to grow. It’s just a lot to take in; his eyes don’t like it when he’s looking at so many different things at once. He doesn’t mention it until he starts to feel proper nauseous, and that’s when he decides not to be stupid and grabs Louis’ hand. Tries to, anyway; he underestimated how far behind him Louis’ hand is and he still doesn’t have much function of his shoulder just yet, but Louis gets the message. 

“Okay, bub, I’ll take you back.”

Harry closes his eyes on the way back, and he kind of hates that he’s missing everything, although he’s trying to avoid getting sick, so he supposes it’s okay. He feels a bit better by the time they get back to his room, although when Louis and another nurse work on getting him back in the bed, Harry pukes down the back of Louis’ shirt just as they set him down. 

Louis’ pauses, and then squeezes his hips and says, “You little shit.” The nurse laughs, and Harry does a bit, too, and Louis rolls his eyes and squeezes Harry’s cheek before going to the bathroom to change his shirt. 

\------------

_**IS HARRY STYLES’ COMA FINALLY OVER? CLICK HERE TO FIND OUT!** _

**_PICTURED: LOUIS TOMLINSON (RIGHT) PUSHING HARRY STYLES (LEFT) IN A WHEELCHAIR AS STYLES HOLDS A PLUSH TEDDY BEAR -- SUPER CUTE!_ **

**_ZAYN MALIK CONFIRMS HARRY’S MIRACLE IN ANGRY TWEET: ‘LEAVE THEM BE’ ‘LET HIM REST’ ‘ENTITLED A**HOLES’’_ **

**_KENDALL JENNER DENIES COMMENT ON EX HARRY STYLES’ HEALTH AFTER RUMORS OF VISITING HIM AT HOSPITAL -- A ROMANCE REKINDLED?_ **

\------------

Louis’ aggravated today, and Harry could sense it right when he walked through the door this morning. He looks tired and worn-thin and sad, and Harry tries to tell him that he should go home and rest, that Harry will be okay here, but Louis doesn’t want to hear it. 

_What’s wrong?_ Harry texts him just after Louis had his lunch and he’s staring intently at his phone. Harry can actually hold his forearm up straight now, for long periods of time, and he can text like a pro with his left hand. Progress. 

“Nothing, love, don’t worry about it.” But Louis doesn’t even look up from his phone, which makes Harry overwhelmingly upset. That’s been getting worse, his reactions to things. He’s explosive sometimes. Not with anger, not yet, but when he feels a tiny bit sad, he can’t control it. 

_Loui pls,_ he texts and Louis sighs and glances at him. He must see how upset Harry looks, because he immediately gets up from his chair and says, “Oh, love,” all soft. He scoots in next to Harry and holds him close. “I’m just trying to take care of some things, okay? Nothing that involves you at all. I’m sorry I’ve been distracted today, I’ll cut it out.”

 _Its ol just dnt wnt u sad,_ he texts, and okay, maybe he’s not a _pro_ , but it’s hard. His right hand is still being stupid, although he’s gotten his right leg to work with him a bit better lately. 

Louis gives him a small smile and kisses Harry’s shoulder. “Not sad, love. Not when I’m with you.” He wraps his arms around one of Harry’s and they just lay there together, peacefully and quietly. 

They spend the next hour or two cuddling and talking about what comes next for Harry. They want to try and get him on real food soon; Harry struggled with swallowing water at first, even though he doesn’t have a problem with swallowing, so they were hesitant to do it too early. Now, though, Harry’s made enough progress and he can drink water like a champ, so there’s no point in prolonging it. It is, however, going to make him poop more, which means Harry’s going to have to get more comfortable pressing the nurse call button when he feels like he has to go and having to do it in front of a stranger, with said stranger holding him up. It’s better than shittting the bed, though. By a long shot. 

Harry’s still in therapy, both physical and mental, and it’s getting more and more intense. Harry’s sleeping a lot more because of it, which sucks, but it’s what has to be done. They’re starting to get worried about how much mobility he’ll get back on his right side; it’s been ten weeks, he’s mostly good to go on his left side, and his right side is massively struggling to keep up. 

Harry was dead for ten whole minutes, and it’s probably a miracle that any of his body wants to work with him at all. When a nurse told Harry that, Louis had gotten scarily angry, but Harry’s doctor -- Dr. Eva, he can remember her name now -- came in and calmed him down. 

“We have to start being more honest with him now,” she told Louis. “It’s time.”

Louis squeezes Harry’s right hand. “Your mum’s going to spend the day with us tomorrow, if that’s okay.”

Harry makes a noise, one that he hopes sounds like a yes. If it doesn’t, Harry’s sure to tap once against Louis’ hand to make sure he knows what he means. 

“Good, love. That’s good.”

-

His first actual meal is a bowl of watery red soup that doesn’t look that appetizing. It’s better than eating through a tube, though, so he doesn’t complain. He doesn’t complain when Louis keeps accidentally spilling it on him, either. It’s not hot, and Harry understands that it’s quite a task to feed someone else something like soup. 

“Shit, sorry,” Louis says, almost mechanically by now because of how many times he’s done it. The checkered white and baby blue gown Harry has on is spotted red, but Harry’s not that bothered by it; he’s pretty sure this place has an endless supply of them. 

Ten minutes and half a bowl later, Harry shakes his head at Louis when he goes to give him another spoonful. Eating is a lot of work. It shouldn’t be, and it is anyway. His jaw is starting to ache and the last couple swallows haven’t been the easiest, and he’s quite bored of this. 

“You all done?” Louis asks him softly, eyes patient. He’s so good to Harry. So, so good. Harry would like to think he’s a good person, but he’s sure if the roles were reversed he couldn’t be as patient with Louis as Louis is with him. Not that he’d rush Louis, not at all, he just. . . Harry would be so scared. _Is_ scared. Louis has always been able to be the strong one, the one who can keep a brave face on for everybody else. Harry’s the type to want a quick fix for things, to want things to stop being hard right now, and there’s not an easy way out of this and he’s positive he would have given up by now, or at the very least be a lot more scared than he is, if it wasn’t for the way Louis takes care of him. 

Harry lets out a small grunt for yes and puts his head back against the pillow. He feels out of breath, kind of. Not much, but more than the average, healthy person would be. 

“You did so good,” Louis tells him as he puts the soup down off to the side. He shifts into a more comfortable position next to Harry and wipes at his face with a tissue. “Better than we thought you would.”

Harry does his best to smile, and his eyes slip shut. He’s tired. So tired. Anything that requires any sort of physical exertion makes him exhausted, and when you add any sort of mental stress on top of that, it gets about a million times worse. 

“Let me get you changed before you sleep, okay?” Louis kisses him on the cheek softly, stays around a bit to pet at Harry’s hair, and then gets out of bed to grab yet another gown. Harry wonders how many of those he’s worn during his stay here. 

Getting him dressed is always a difficult task, one that usually requires two people, but Louis doesn’t get someone else to help. He does it all on his own, even when it takes three times longer than it would with help, even when Harry’s not awake enough to at least try and make it easier on him. 

Louis gets the gown on him and is getting the bed on the right setting that Harry prefers when he sleeps when a nurse comes in. As a defensive mechanism, Harry closes his eyes, hoping that if he thinks he’s sleeping, he’ll leave him be. 

“Hi, Adam,” Louis greets as he gets Harry’s bed just right. Now the pillows are uncomfortably fluffy, but Louis will fix that next. He knows he will. “He’s just about to go to sleep.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” Adam says. He grabs Harry’s chart off the wall, just like they all do, and signs something before putting it back. “I was just stopping by to tell you that Dr. Eva said Harry can choose to have his catheter removed if he feels ready to start using the bathroom. With help, of course.”

In any other circumstance, Harry would be jumping at the opportunity to have a tube removed from his dick, but he’s not ready for that yet. Mentally, he’s not there. The idea of having to press the call button every time he has to pee, having a swarm of nurses come help him use the toilet, and then having to put him back into bed seems awful. Plus, the anxiety that’ll come with the fear of not being able to make it to the toilet in time doesn’t sound great, either. Going through that all when he has to shit is irritating enough, and he pees about ten times more than he does poop, so. No thank you, not yet. 

He opens his eyes to see Louis looking at him patiently. Harry taps his finger twice, and Louis nods. “Not yet? That’s okay.”

Adam nods by the doorway. “Yeah, that’s perfectly fine. It’s up to you.” He smiles at them both before telling Harry goodnight and shutting the door. 

As soon as he’s gone, Louis fixes Harry’s pillow and blanket and get the teddy bear all settled underneath Harry’s arm like normal; as stupid as it probably is, Harry likes it. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, all alone, he strokes the soft fur of the bear to keep him occupied until he falls back asleep. 

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep, okay?” Louis tells him. “Goodnight, love. Have good dreams for me.”

Harry’s eyes slip shut, and then he’s out.

-

Harry says his first word -- and God, that makes him sound like a little baby, but he’ll take it -- during a therapy appointment with Claire. She comes to see him all the time, almost every day, and she shows him pictures of things and asks him to try and say what it is. It’s terrifying when he knows what it is, knows what that word sounds like, but when he tries to say it, it comes out deformed. 

The doctors tell him he’ll just have to relearn how to talk, and that it’ll be easier than he thinks once the ball starts rolling. 

It takes twelve weeks and a picture of a body of water for him to finally get a word out. 

“ _Lake._ ”

Louis grins. “Fuck yes,” he says, leaning over to press a sloppy, wet kiss against Harry’s cheek. Harry wipes it off, laughing quietly. 

Claire’s smiling, too, but she’s more secretive with it. “It’s actually a pond,” she says, eyes twinkling, “but I’ll take it.”

He manages to get another word out that day, two, actually, when Louis’ getting ready to go for the night and Harry manages a quiet, sleepy, “Miss you.”

“Oh, love,” Louis whispers, coming over to him. He squeezes Harry tight, and Harry is getting there with his strength and mobility, so it’s getting easier to try and match Louis. He’s not quite there, though, not yet. “I love you so much. You have no idea how proud of you I am.”

At week fifteen, they get him in the water. It’s an incredibly daunting thing to do, especially when he couldn’t stand yesterday when they tried to get him on his feet, but they tell him he’ll be safe and that Louis can be with him every step of the way. 

“It’s going to be just fine, baby,” Louis tells him, crouching down in front of Harry’s wheelchair. Nobody else is here aside from the two of them and Marcus, the one who’s going to make sure he doesn’t fucking drown. “Nobody’s asking you to go for a swim just yet, okay? You’re just going to sit and kick your legs the best you can.”

“But what if I fall in?” he tries to ask, and it comes out as, “But -- what -- fall, no.”

Louis gets it anyway. “You’re not going to fall in. I’m going to be literally right next to you. Why else do you think I got these ugly swim shorts on?”

It takes a few more minutes of coddling, and Harry is absolutely petrified when Marcus picks him up and maneuvers him to the water, but it’s. . . not bad at all. He’s sitting on a step, just like Louis said he would be, and Marcus is right in front of him and Louis has his hands under his armpits, ready to pull him back and hold him up the minute Harry needs it. The water’s only up to Harry’s ribcage, and Marcus offers him a different spot where the water will be even lower, which Harry denies because he can do this. He _is_ doing this. 

His memory has been getting gradually better, and he knows for a fact that he used to be fit and able to swim for hours on end without getting too tired. He used to look like Marcus, who’s muscular and fit and not struggling at all to toss Harry’s weight around. Harry can’t even lift his knees out of the water yet. He can kick a bit, but nothing to write home about. It’s exhausting. 

Still, when he gets out of the water and put back in his wheelchair, he’s sore in a victorious type of way. He’s getting better, slowly but surely. 

-

Some nights, when Harry’s feeling awake enough before bed, Louis will cuddle him up and read him texts from his friends. There’s always so many, and they always text Harry through Louis. Sometimes, especially toward the beginning, Harry didn’t have a clue of most of the people who were texting him, but as he gets a little better, names and faces and relationships start coming together in his head. 

“Jeff says he misses you like mad,” Louis says, reading from his screen. “Niall says he calls dibs on taking you out for your first pint after you’re all better. Alexa says -- ”

Harry makes a small noise, which has become their signal for when Harry doesn’t know who Louis’ referring to. Louis kisses the top of his head. 

“Alexa Chung. Pretty girl. She’s a model, I think, I don’t really know. You’ve been friends with her for ages. I’ll Google a picture for you.”

As Louis finds a picture for him, the name settles his brain and he’s almost positive he knows who Louis is talking about now. The picture reaffirms that, and Harry makes another tiny noise, meaning he understands. It’s odd, how used he is to not be able to talk. Now, sometimes he doesn’t bother trying because it’s too much work and Louis will always find a way to understand him no matter what. 

“Alexa says that, as soon as she’s allowed, she’s going to come and paint your nails. Says they must be hideous by now. . . Nick just keeps sending pictures of his dogs. Think it’s his only personality trait.” He shows Harry anyway, and Harry smiles at it tiredly. “My mum says she’s going crazy not being able to see you. She sends her love.”

Louis told him a while back that they’re holding off on visits from anyone who isn’t himself, Anne or Gemma until Harry’s last few days at the hospital. They want to make sure he’s as good to go as he possibly can be, while also trying to make it as less stressful as it can be. When Harry gets home, there’s going to be another long period where only a limited number of people can see him so he isn’t overwhelmed from everything changing so much.

“Let’s see, who else. . . oh, Meri says she loves you. Taylor sent chocolates over to the house and then sent me a text two days later after she realized you’re not going to be up for chocolate yet. So she sent flowers instead. And a picture of her cats.” He shows Harry again, and Harry’s getting tired so he can only manage a barely-there smile. Louis notices and puts his phone down so he can get Harry ready for bed. 

That night, Harry has dreams of cats and nail salons and, for some reason, a nice dinner roast.

-

Claire tells him how he ended up here two days later, and he absolutely freaks out. 

“Are you still unable to recall the event that led to the coma?” she asks, in that cryptic, vague way of hers. 

He shakes his head. That’s become a routine question. 

“Would you like to know?”

That’s not a routine question. She hasn’t asked him that yet. Harry glances nervously at Louis, who’s staring blankly down at the bed with his jaw clenched shut. He has Harry’s hand tight in his, tighter than normal. 

“Yes, please,” Harry says, and he talks with a bit of a lisp now, but it’s okay. It doesn’t matter, not when he’s only getting used to getting a few words out after being unable to do so for over three months. He’s been awake now for almost as long as he was in a coma. 

She tells him that it might be hard to hear, that he might be shocked. He tells her again that it’s okay, that he wants to hear.

After a deep breath, she says, “You tried to commit suicide, Harry. In early August.”

Panic sets in immediately. His whole body gets hot, and he feels flushed, and suddenly breathing takes a lot more effort than it ever has. He feels his hand twitch in Louis’, and Louis squeezes him even tighter. That’s -- what is she -- no. No, just no, there’s no way. 

He’s got a feeling, though, deep, deep down that she’s telling the truth. 

“What?” he gets out, and it comes out high and shaky. “What’re you -- ”

“Try to relax, sweetheart,” Louis tells him, and then Claire says, “Anything you’re feeling is completely okay, we can talk through it,” and it’s just -- no, God no, what the _hell._

“I _didn’t,_ ” he cries, yanking his hand away from Louis’. His right hand, and that’s the most movement he’s gotten out of that arm yet, but he doesn’t focus on that. Louis’ eyes him carefully, looking unsure and scared. “I didn’t -- Louis, I wouldn’t, Louis, _no._ ”

And the words don’t come out right, they’re all jumbled and shaky, and it makes him so much more frustrated. This can’t be happening. He can’t believe this. 

“I’m not mad,” Louis tells him, and his voice is all watery and shaky and Harry _did that to him_ , he did this to _himself,_ he’s -- what the _fuck._ What the fuck. 

“Harry,” Claire starts, and no, she needs to shut up, she needs to fucking shut the fuck up, she shouldn’t have told him that, he didn’t -- there’s -- 

God, he feels lightheaded. 

“Harry,” Claire says again. And Harry properly explodes; tries to, anyway, in any way that he can. He kicks out and he screams at her that she needs to leave, that she’s a liar, that he wouldn’t do that to himself, except he doesn’t because the words don’t come out right. He’s sobbing now, and he doesn’t know what to do, _he doesn’t know what to do,_ but he wants her to leave. 

She does, and he doesn’t feel any better. 

Louis crawls into bed with him, and Harry kicks at him, too, before he realizes that he shouldn’t. Louis pulls him towards him, and Harry collapses into his chest and just screams, agonizing, sharp cries erupting from him. He claws at Louis’ thigh, and Louis keeps shushing him and petting him and holding him and nothing works. Nothing works, because Harry did this to himself. 

All of this, all of this pain, only to find out that he’s what caused it. 

-

He doesn’t let go of Louis for hours after that. He stays there, huddled against Louis with Louis leaning over top of him and telling him he’s okay for hours. It passes Harry’s feeding time, and nobody comes. It passes the time Anne has been calling him lately, but the phone doesn’t ring. It passes the time Louis usually leaves for the night, and Louis doesn’t move a muscle. And Harry’s so grateful for it, because the minute Louis leaves him, he has to face what he’s done. 

The time comes when Louis whispers against the top of his head, “I really have to wee, love. I’ll be right back.” He slowly sits up, and judging by the sharp wince, his back is hurting him from how he was holding Harry. Harry doesn’t stop clinging to Louis’ shirt, though, and Louis pats his right hand with a sad smile. “There’s that strength we’ve been looking for. Come on, baby. I’ll be right back.”

Harry lets him go, and Louis kisses the top of his head before going to the bathroom. As soon as the door shuts, Harry explodes into another fit of tears. He’s so tired; this is the longest he’s been awake in so long. 

He can’t believe he would do that to himself. It’s so hard to think about what led him there when he can’t remember much from around that time. He thinks, hard, for the entire time Louis’ gone, and he can’t even for a second think of one suicidal thought he has ever had. 

Maybe something bad happened to him. That’s the only thing he can think of that would push him that far. 

When Louis gets back, he changes into some pajamas really quickly before sliding right back into bed. He holds Harry fiercely, and he tells him that he loves him more than anything else in the whole wide world. Harry folds his hand over Louis’ and sniffles against his chest. 

“How?” he asks, voice small. That’s all he can get out. _How?_

“How what?”

His lips don’t want to work with him at all. It gets harder to talk the more tired he is, and he’s downright exhausted right now. “How did,” he gets out, and then pauses. He waits a few seconds and finishes, “I do it?” 

Louis tenses and runs his hand soothingly over the top of Harry’s head. His fingers stop to brush over Harry’s temple. “You shot yourself, love.” Like an apology, as if he has anything to apologize for, he presses his cheek against the top of Harry’s head and holds him tighter. 

“Oh, God,” Harry grits out, squeezing his eyes shut. He can’t believe that. He can’t believe any of this, what the _hell._ “Where?” Again, it comes out misshapen. Again, Louis understands. 

“Your head, babe.” His fingers stroke over the spot he’s been petting with a little more force. “Right here.”

Harry’s hand darts up to try and feel, but he’s still been struggling to raise his arms all the way. Louis helps him feel; he guides his fingers to the spot, where what feels like a large chunk of scar tissue lays. He thinks that’s it, that’s it’s just the one spot, but Louis’ fingers move his over towards the left, where the scar travels in a thin line, and to a hard spot at the beginning of Harry’s hairline. Must be more scarring. 

After all this time, Harry has yet to see a mirror. He wonders if that’s been intentional or dumb luck. The next time he’s on his phone, he’ll take a look at it in the camera. 

He chokes on a loud sob. 

“Oh, love, it’s okay,” Louis soothes, rubbing his back. He takes Harry’s hand away from his face and squeezes it. “It doesn’t look bad, I promise.”

“W-where,” he tries, and can’t get the rest of the words out. Louis asks him if he wants to write on his phone, and Harry agrees. Shakily, Louis helps him sit up and leans over him to grab his phone. He opens the notepad app and hands it to Harry. 

_Where did I get a gun?_

Louis stares at it for longer than necessary before looking Harry in the eye. He looks shut down, like he’s trying to remain as emotionless as possible, for Harry’s sake. “You bought it last year from a friend in Los Angeles. You told them you were getting it for someone else.”

Well, there goes his entire theory that something bad happened to him. This was planned out. Massively planned out; he had the gun for a _year_. 

_So sorry,_ he writes, and more tears burn his eyes. He’s so angry at himself. So mad at himself that he keeps thinking, _God, you should have just done it._

And maybe he is capable of trying to kill himself if he’s able to think something as selfish as that. 

“You don’t -- ” Louis pauses. “It’s okay. I forgive you.”

_Why did I do it?_

Louis’ quiet for a moment, and Harry’s too ashamed to look at him. After a few seconds, Louis says, choked and tearful, “I don’t -- I don’t know. I don’t know. I haven’t got a clue.” He wipes at his eyes and Harry drops the phone and does his best at curling into Louis. Louis presses his face against Harry’s shoulder, and Harry tries and half-succeeds at rubbing his back. 

“So sorry,” he breathes out, and Louis lets out a sharp cry and presses against him more. 

-

Physical therapy stops being hard. It’s quite an easy thing to do, actually, if you flat out refuse to partake in any of it. Therapy, too. The type for this head. The kind it turns out he needed for a long time before this. It’s a lot easier, a lot less effort, if he just lays there and doesn’t say a goddamn word. 

He’s being a shithead, he knows that. He knows that all these people have put so much energy into making him healthy, like he even deserves that. He’s the only who put a hole through his head; they should have let him die. Nobody should have given him a second chance. He doesn’t deserve one. 

“Harry,” Katherine says, gentle as always, one week into Harry’s stupid little strike. “The longer you don’t let us help, the more your muscles are going to atrophy again. It’s already been a week, and you’ve probably already lost so much progress.”

Harry turns his head away from her. He doesn’t care. They don’t realize that no matter who they send in here to say that, he’s not going to care. He deserves to lose any progress he’s made. He didn’t deserve to make any of that progress in the first place. He made a choice, a stupid, selfish, digsuting choice, and he should have had to live with the consequences. 

“I know Louis would really like it if you kept trying,” she tells him. “I’d bet he’d be so happy if he came in here and saw you doing your exercises. Don’t you think?”

Louis stopped sitting in here with him during physical therapy after he snapped at Harry the second day and told him he had to cut this shit out and just listen to them. 

She sits with him for about ten more minutes before she sighs quietly and gets up. Just before she leaves, he tells her to wait, and she turns around, looking hopeful. 

“Wanna be on my side,” he says. He swallows thickly. “Please.”

“Of course, Harry.”

She helps him get to his side and fixes up the blankets for him before leaving, and then Harry’s alone. For the first time since they told him, actually. If nobody else is in the room, Louis won’t leave him longer than however long it takes to piss and shower. 

He grabs his phone off the side table and opens the camera, and God, Louis was lying. The scar looks awful. The main part of it is a mix of red, white and pink, and it’s big, and it looks gross. It looks so fucking gross. He fucked up his face, along with his head and his body and his life. Along with _Louis’_ life. 

God, he’s so sick of crying. 

Louis finds him laying in bed, crying and pushing at the scar on his head. He knows he shouldn’t be doing it, especially when it starts to throb, but maybe he didn’t understand just how stupid it was because Louis is _livid_. 

“Do not do that,” he snaps, grabbing Harry’s hand and holding it away from his face. “You’ve made it all red, H, don’t -- don’t _do_ that. Don’t ever fucking do that. Just leave it be, okay? Don’t hurt yourself any worse.”

Harry just cries so more, Really, it’s all he’s been doing this past week. 

-

Harry completely refuses to see his mum or sister for two weeks. He doesn’t think he can face them again, not now, not when they both know what he did. 

Yet apparently that choice has been taken away from him, because one morning he wakes up to Anne and Gemma chatting quietly with Louis by the doorway. He wants to be angry, at all of them, for ignoring his wishes, but he can’t be. Not when they all spent so long wishing for him to wake up and being by his side the minute he did. 

“Mum,” he whimpers out before he can convince himself not to. They all turn to look at him, and Anne looks _so_. . . disappointed, really. She looks disappointed in him. 

“Oh, love, don’t cry,” she whispers, coming to hold him. He melts into her exactly like he’s been melting into Louis lately, and she holds him back just as fiercely. 

“Do you h. . . hate me?”

“Of course not.” She sounds stern, and she pulls back from him enough to get him to look at her. He does, and she looks so upset. All he’s done is make everybody so upset, which is the hardest part for him to understand. All he’s ever wanted to do is hurt as little people as possible, and now he’s gone and hurt everyone who’s ever cared about him. 

“I love you,” she says. “So much. I always have, and I always will. You _know_ that.”

Anne holds him until his cries reduce to sniffles, and then she tells him that Gemma wants to talk to him privately. “Me and Louis will be downstairs getting a coffee, okay?”

He’s so scared. So, so scared. He’s waiting for someone to yell at him like he deserves. _You stupid, selfish piece of shit. What were you thinking? How could you do that to Louis?_ Maybe his sister is going to be the one to do that. 

Still, he doesn’t protest them leaving. Like he said: he deserves it. If she’s going to be the one to give it to him, he’ll do his very best to take it. 

Anne and Louis leave, and Gemma gives him a small smile as she sits on the chair next to his bed. They’ve already done this, the awkward, first-time seeing each other, but now Harry’s talking and somewhat mobile and aware of what his stupidity has cost everyone. 

“Are you mad at me?” he gets out in chunks. Once he does, she shakes her head. 

“Not anymore.” Before he can ask what made her stop being mad at him, she changes the subject. “You need to start listening to your doctors again, baby brother. You’re driving Louis mad.”

His bottom lip wobbles and he lays his head back against the pillows. 

“Do you know how close you were from being able to go home?” she asks, sounding genuinely curious. “In less than a month from when they told you what happened, they were going to let you go home. And now that date has been pushed back by a lot.”

God, no, Harry didn’t know that. He wonders if it would have changed anything if he had. Probably. He misses his dogs. 

“Wanna go,” he gets out. 

Gemma looks so sad. “The doctors have to make sure you’re at a point that Louis can take care of you on his own. You’re eating again, and you’re talking, and you _were_ almost mobile. They want to get you at least standing a bit before they send you off, and this little stunt that you’re pulling is making that a smaller and smaller possibility.”

She’s not being mean, she’s being blunt. Harry wouldn’t expect absolutely anything else from his sister. 

“So mad at myself.”

“I understand that,” she says, grabbing his hand. “I do, Harry. I would be mad at myself if I were you, too. But why exactly are you mad at yourself?”

Harry takes a deep breath before he tries talking again. He’s looking forward to the day that it’s not so hard. “Louis,” he says, and that’s all he says. 

“That’s what I thought,” Gemma says, nodding. “You’re mad at what you did to Louis, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then prove to him that he hasn’t wasted all his time here,” she says gently. “Prove to him that you’re not going to deny his help. Again.” She lets that sit there, pausing to let her point make an impact. “Let him know that you need his help. Give him a chance to take care of you, now that he knows you need taken care of.”

She’s right. For Louis’ sake, he needs to try and take care of himself. Louis doesn’t deserve to sit here for months only to have Harry wake up and continue being a terrible, selfish person. He needs to show Louis that it was worth it, giving him all that time. 

He has absolutely no idea how to prove that to himself, though. 

-

Forcing himself to do what everybody wants him to is difficult and infuriating and he cries more during the appointment than he ever has before. Before, he got frustrated that he couldn’t do what they were asking him just because he couldn’t do it. Now, he gets so angry that his blood boils because he can’t do something as simple as bending his knee, because he _shot himself in the head._ He did this to himself, all of it, and it’s hard to extinguish his anger, which makes him even angrier because he can’t control his emotions as much because he tried to _kill himself._

Almost all of his physical therapy sessions end earlier than they used to with Harry in a fit of tears saying he can’t do it and repeatedly asking them to leave. They’re always hesitant to listen, and they always look to Louis, who has become the person who calls the shots because he can tell if Harry can be pushed a bit more or if he’s at his limits. 

Today, two weeks into listening to the doctors again, he tries to suppress the tears and the anger and the frustration. He tries really fucking hard, but it’s just. . . God, he did this to himself. He can’t do all of this stuff because of an action he willingly committed. 

Katherine’s having him squeeze a ball with his right hand, over and over and over again, and after about thirty seconds, his entire arm is on fire and he wants to stop. 

“I can’t,” he tells her, sniffling. He stops, the ball laying untouched in the palm of his hand. 

“Are you sure you can’t do it for a bit longer?”

Harry lets out a blubbering cry that comes out of absolutely nowhere. He turns his head toward Louis and closes his eyes before trying to keep up squeezing the ball. The pain is bright and hot and all-consuming, though, and after another ten seconds, he stops again. 

“That’s good,” she says softly. “Why don’t we take a little break before we move on to something else?”

Harry nods, still sniffling. “Please.”

She leaves for a few minutes, giving Louis the time he needs to calm Harry back down. He tells him the same things every time: it’s okay, you’re doing so good, we’re all so proud of you. And Harry listens to it at all with his eyes clenched shut as he tries to quit crying. 

It takes about five minutes to calm him down, but it takes so much less that to start back up again. Katherine has him on the edge of the bed, Louis holding him steady from behind, stretching his legs one at a time out and putting them back down. Over and over and over again. It’s significantly easier to do with his left leg than it is his right, and yet he can only do his left leg three times before it hurts to the point he doesn’t think he should be doing it anymore. With the right left, he can get his foot off the ground, maybe three inches, and that’s all he can do before his thigh muscles start protesting. 

“I can’t,” he says, starting to get worked up again, and Louis hushes him and Katherine tells him to just keep doing that, then. Just keep getting his foot off the ground. He does that for a little bit, not longer than forty seconds before he has to stop again. 

“That’s good for today, I think,” she tells him, even though it’s a much shorter session than normal. It doesn’t end in tears, though, which feels like a small victory. Maybe that’s what she wants. 

Harry rests all his weight against Louis, and Louis responds by wrapping his arms around his chest. “Okay. Thanks.”

Hesitantly, she tells him. “We’re going to try and get you standing tomorrow. It should be okay for you to do now. You don’t have too much strength in your legs, but enough to keep you standing for at least a little with our help, okay?”

It sounds tiring and it makes him sad, but he nods anyway. “Okay.”

“Alright.” She smiles at him and stands. “Until tomorrow, then.”

She leaves, and Harry stays sagged against Louis, just letting himself be held. They probably should move him, because the way he’s laying isn’t the most secure and he could slide off the bed before Louis could catch him, but he doesn’t care about that right now. He’s sick of everything having to be so difficult. 

“How do you feel, love?” Louis asks, rubbing his hand against Harry’s chest.

Harry’s quiet for a second before he says, “So, so stupid.”

“Oh, love.” Louis pulls him in tighter, closer, and Harry starts to cry, then. Louis just sighs softly and keeps rocking him side to side. 

-

Standing doesn’t go as terribly as he thought it was going to. 

They put a walker in front of his bed (a _walker_ , like the type meant for old people, and Harry’s still in his early twenties) and tell him to grip it as tightly as he can. He does, heart hammering nervously in his chest, and they put this -- this belt thing on him, Harry doesn’t know what it’s called. They tell him what it is but he drowns it out as he tries to prepare himself for falling flat on his face. He does know it’s meant to help catch him if he falls, though. 

“Try to lift yourself up as much as you can when you feel ready,” Katherine tells him. She’s standing on one side of him, her hands steady on his shoulder and bicep, while another physician stands on the other side of him does the same, except one of his hands has a hold on the belt-thing. 

Harry can’t lift himself up. It’s almost laughable to try and tell him that he could do it to any degree. But he tries anyway, and he doesn’t get himself up very fair but they hold him up the rest of the way, and then he’s standing. It takes a walker and two people holding up most of his weight, but it’s standing nonetheless. 

Louis looks so goddamn happy. His mum wanted to be here, but Harry asked her not to be. He sincerely thought he was going to fall down immediately. 

“How does it feel?” the man asks. Harry’s still shit at names, although there’s so many different people going in and out of his room everyday that he doesn’t blame himself. 

Harry’s gripping the walker tighter than he has gripped anything as of yet, mostly out of fear, and he lets out a shaky breath. “Weird,” he says. “I don’t -- strained.”

Katherine pats his back, and it’s supposed to be comforting, but all Harry can think is that he’d much rather that hand back on his bicep, supporting him. “First time you’ve had weight on your legs in a long, long time.” 

His arms are really starting to burn. 

“Do you feel like you’re putting an equal amount of weight on both legs?” she asks, and that’s an easy question; he shakes his head no. He’s barely putting any amount of pressure on his right leg, and it’s still hurting almost worse than his left. “Can you try to?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t want to.” He doesn’t trust it. The minute he tried to put more weight on his right side, it’d give out on him, he _knows_ it would. 

“Okay. That’s okay. Next time.”

He’s standing for maybe another ten seconds before he starts to get scared that his arms are going to give out on him, and they must sense it because they tell him it’s okay and slowly help him sit back on the bed. He’s breathless and sore and his legs feel weird, like all the blood has rushed down to them. 

“Good?” Louis asks him, looking nervous.

Harry nods once, too breathless to try and talk. 

-

The first thing he thinks when they enter the pool room is that he wonders why he chose to shoot himself when drowning seems so much easier. They were in and out of enough hotel rooms that Harry could have done it easily that way -- and with drowning, if he were to live, somehow, maybe the aftermath wouldn’t be so severe because he wouldn’t have shot a hole through his head. 

“Don’t be nervous,” Louis tells him in a whisper, and Harry swallows thickly. He shouldn’t be thinking things like that. That’s. . . It’s a little too morbid to pass off as insignificant, right? Maybe he should tell someone. If not Louis, maybe Claire. He doesn’t know what to do with that, but he does know there was probably a time in his life that he brushed off thoughts similar to that and it wound him up here. 

When they lower him the water, his heart is racing and he’s as tense as fuck, which is normal for him because he hates this part. He could just fall in so easily, and he’s defenseless. What if Louis and Marcus look away, just for a second, and then Harry slips and he’s gone? That’s terrifying, and actually somewhat probable. 

“Nice and slow, Harry, there we go.” Marcus doesn’t let him go until Harry stops gripping onto him so tightly, and when he does, he doesn’t go very far. He’s right in front of him, and Louis’ right behind him, supporting him like he was last time. Harry can sit up okay, but they all feel loads better with Louis helping him anyway.

“Your strength is back up,” Marcus says, when he’s got Harry kicking in the water the best he can. It’s pathetic; short, infrequent, little kicks counts as his strength being back up. He’s already so sore, from yesterday and from day after day of physical therapy. If it wasn’t for the soreness in his legs, maybe he’d be even stronger. The only way to get rid of that soreness is to stop exercising, though, and that would just allow his muscles to shrink right back up, so it’s a bit of double-edged sword. 

After a few lousy minutes, it’s getting harder and harder to fight through the pain and he’s got his eyes closed tight, trying to stay focused. It’s hard. It’s so hard. But now that Harry’s trying again, Louis’ been so much happier with him, looks so proud of him, and he doesn’t want to lose that. Trying for Louis feels like the only decent apology he could ever give him for what he tried to do. 

After another twenty minutes or so, with a handful of generous breaks sprinkled in, Harry is being wheeled back to his room. He’s tired and sore and a bit sad, although as soon as he gets to his room he’s going to ask Louis to get him some ice cream, so he’s trying to keep his spirits up with that. It’s the small things in life. 

“Can I sit on the chair?” Harry asks once they get in the room. Louis agrees easily enough; it’s easier to get Harry on the chair than the bed, anyway. And now Harry’s able to hold onto Louis for dear life as Louis gets him to the chair. It’s no longer necessary for Harry to be completely picked up. He can manage to hold up some of his weight long enough for Louis to get him seated wherever he needs to be seated. 

Sitting on the chair makes him feel less crippled, less like a hospital patient. It’s going to be so good to be at home, where he’ll be seen by doctors daily but without the bulky hospital bed and bright lights and catheters. Which, speaking of, Harry is going off of today. He didn’t plan on it, but when a nurse took it out for him this morning so he could move easier in the pool, he couldn’t find it in himself to want her to put it back on. If he accidentally pisses on himself a time or two because someone can’t get him to a toilet fast enough, so be it. They manage to get him there no problem when he has to shit, so he has to have a little more faith in them. 

Louis gets him his blanket and teddy bear and phone, and just before he can sit down, Harry smiles at him sweetly and says, “Hey, Lou? Can you get me some ice cream? The chocolate kind, please.”

Louis sticks his tongue out at him and presses a kiss to his forehead before leaving the room, and he comes back a minute later with two ice cream cups in his hands. “Here you go, love,” he says, handing it to him. Harry takes it. “You think you’ll be able to eat it on your own?”

He’s been managing eating by himself with most food, mostly those that don’t require a steady hand. Soup’s still a messy occasion. “I think I’ll be okay,” he says, leaning back against the couch. He wants a pillow, but he won’t ask for one, not when Louis just sat down on the arm of the chair. “Thank you, love.”

“Sure. You want to watch something?”

They turn on a judge show and watch it as they eat their ice cream. It’s nice, and it’s _normal._ It’s so normal. And Harry’s been craving some scene of normality for so long, so he feels a little shit for ruining it with his problems, but it feels important enough to do so. He’s terrified of ending up back here. 

“Hey, babe?” Harry says, voice low. He looks over at him, already feeling guilty. Louis must be able to read it on him because he frowns and sets his empty cup on the table. 

“What’s up, H?”

He should’ve saved this for Claire. He regrets bringing it up, and now Louis’ looking at him expectantly and Harry hasn’t got a clue on how to say it. Claire hasn’t proved to be too helpful just yet, and he knows that’s because he hasn’t let her help much (ever since she told him what happened, he’s been wildly defensive with her and doesn’t talk about things he doesn’t want to). Maybe it’s wrong to put this on Louis, but Louis has always been so helpful to him. Always. He can’t understand why he wouldn’t tell Louis what was going on in his before everything that happened. 

“Um. I don’t. . .” he stops himself, tries to get his head on straight. As he does so, he looks down at his hands. “I feel -- just, sometimes I think things that I know I shouldn’t be thinking. Like, stuff that probably isn’t healthy, I mean.”

Louis goes completely still for about fifteen seconds. Finally, he asks in a low, careful voice, “Like. . . like bad things? About yourself?”

Harry nods his head once. 

“Have you thought about hurting yourself again?”

Harry whips his head up to look at Louis, who looks absolutely heartbroken. “No,” he says hurriedly. “No, Louis, I don’t want -- I don’t want to do that. I wouldn’t do that to you again.” He shifts so it’s not so uncomfortable when he rests in his head in Louis’ lap, and Louis rests a careful hand on the top of his head. “I don’t know how to explain it. Things just pop in my head that are, like, morbid. And things that I don’t want to be thinking about.” That’s probably the most words he has managed to say at once, and most of the words come out clearly. 

Louis leans down to kiss his head, and he stays like that, Harry huddled up under him, protected by him. “Thank you for telling me,” he whispers, voice too tight for him not to be on the verge of tears. “I want you to talk about it with Claire, okay?”

“I will. Promise.”

“Good, baby. Good. Thank you.”

And he’s definitely crying, and Harry feels awful. 

“I’m so sorry,” Harry says, sitting up, which takes a lot more effort than leaning down did. He goes to rest his hand on Louis’ cheek, but his arm falls short and he settles for gripping onto Louis’ shirt instead. There are tears in Louis’ eyes and running down his cheeks, and Harry’s own bottom lip wobbles. He shattered Louis’ heart. HIs trust, too, probably. “I regret,” he pauses, the word not coming out right, “I regret it so much,” he says. “I don’t -- why I did it. Don’t know.”

Louis gives him a thin, flimsy smile. “Just don’t do it ever again, okay? Never again.”

“Never again,” Harry repeats, twisting Louis’ shirt when he curls his fingers. 

“Promise me?”

“Promise, Lou. Promise.”

A few tears run down Louis’ face before he pulls Harry closer towards him. He slides down so he’s sitting next to Harry, both of them squished together on the chair, and he holds him fiercely. 

Harry holds back just as tight. 

-

Claire tells him they’re called intrusive thoughts, and she gives him strategies on how to avoid and cope with them. It’s relieving to hear there are ways to manage it, and it seems to ease Louis’ nerves, even though he’s not supposed to be listening. Harry saw him pause his movie two minutes after Claire sat down with Harry; it’s okay. Louis can listen. 

They talk about it for the first time, Harry’s suicide attempt. Except that there isn’t much to talk about. Harry doesn’t remember buying the gun, and he doesn’t remember ever thinking that poorly about his life, and he doesn’t remember squeezing the trigger. He doesn’t know why all of those memories are just gone. With most things, if he’s reminded of something, he can reconnect with a memory, but anything to do with August tenth and what led up to it is gone. 

She tells him that sometimes humans block out traumatic experiences. He supposes that makes sense. 

“Now,” she says, in that tone of voice of hers she uses when she’s changing topics. “How do you feel about going home soon?”

He eyes her skeptically. “How soon?”

“In about two weeks. Maybe three.”

Surprised, he turns to Louis, who’s giving him a warm smile. “I was going to tell you later, but yeah, you’re pretty much good to go. I’ve got some stuff to do on your behalf, paperwork and plans and things like that, but we’ll be going home soon, love."

A smile tugs on Harry’s lips. “Good. That’s. . . good. I’m glad.”

“I hear your friends will be starting to stop by,” Claire says. “How do you feel about seeing everyone again?”

He shrugs, feeling anxious all the sudden. “Nervous,” he mumbles, crossing his arms. On reflex, he squeezes his right fist, just to prove to himself he can. “Don’t want anybody to be mad.”

“Absolutely nobody is mad at you,” Louis says, clearly against Claire’s wishes. She’s not too keen on the fact that Harry wants Louis in the room, and when he butts in the conversation, she gets a little prickly. She never mentions it, though. “Seriously, H. Some of them are hurt and shocked and think what you did was stupid, but nobody’s mad. I promise.”

Relief spreads across Harry’s chest. He keeps picturing getting yelled at by someone, by anyone, and even though he feels like he’d probably deserve it, that doesn’t mean he wants it to happen. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone. 

-

They get him standing again three days later, and it’s a lot less shaky than it was the last time. He manages to hold it a minute longer, too, and his mum is here this time around, and she cries and claps and, once he’s seated, hugs him and tells him how proud she is. 

“You’re almost as good as new,” she tells him, smiling. 

Harry snorts at that. “Hardly. Can’t even get to the toilet by myself.”

But he can hold himself on his own now, so he’s been granted a bit of privacy. Now his helpers stand outside the door once they get him situated, in case he falls. 

“You’re getting there, though.”

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

It only took nineteen weeks to get here, but here they are. 

-

Louis gets everybody organized to see him during his last week at hospital. Week twenty-two will be the one he gets to go home, and Harry could not be more excited. 

The first day, Louis’ mum and oldest sisters are going to come see him. The next day, Liam, Zayn and Niall. After that, Ben, Nick and Jeff. And those are the only ones they’re making time for, which Harry thinks is kind of unfair, but he understands it. He’ll get to see everyone else after he gets settled in at home, anyway. 

God, being home is not a distant dream anymore. He’s going _home,_ eight days from now. In four days, he gets to start seeing other people. He’s nervous about it -- he’s nervous about all of it -- of course he is, but. . . It’s kind of like it can’t get any worse than it has been before. And to make it better, his doctors think he should be able to use a walker on his own for a limited amount of time before he gets out of here. Louis’ beyond apprehensive at the idea, although Harry’s going to have to get used to being his own person eventually, and they both know that. 

He shifts in his bed, and as he does, his bladder tugs at him, telling him to go to the bathroom. Before, he’d probably ignore it. Now, he immediately sits up and asks Louis, who’s on the phone talking to Liam, to help him to the bathroom. He’s not going to piss himself and the bed, and then not even be able to help clean it up. 

“Yeah, love, ‘course. Hang on, Li, gotta help Harry with something real fast.”

Harry manages to maneuver himself to the edge of the bed on his own, which takes a lot out of him. Louis is patient with him as he waits for Harry to feel good enough to grab a hold of the walker and heft himself up. Eventually, Harry does, and immediately, Louis has a strong arm around his middle and around his shoulder so Harry isn’t supporting most of his weight, and then they hobble that way to the bathroom, Louis pretty much carrying him the entire way, even if Harry’s feet are on the ground. 

“Alright, there’s a love,” Louis says as Harry ungracefully plops down onto the toilet seat. He doesn’t tell Louis to leave as he uses the bathroom -- there’s no point, not anymore, not after everything -- and once he’s finished, Louis starts to get ready to help him back up, but Harry asks him to wait. 

“Could you help me take a bath after you’re done on the phone with Liam?” he asks. Louis’ been the one giving him baths for months now, and since he’s already in the bathroom, there’s no point in taking him to bed only to bring him back here after a few minutes. 

“Yeah, H. I can call Liam back later.”

“No, don’t. Finish your call.” Harry gives him a tired smile. “I can sit tight.”

Louis squeezes his shoulder. “You sure, love?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

Hesitantly, Louis leaves him to sit on the toilet. As he listens Louis talk on the phone with Liam about mundane things, Harry (carefully, so carefully; he’s terrified of hurting himself worse) manages to get his gown off on his own. He sits there, breathless and tired, just from that, as he waits for Louis to return to him. 

He does six minutes later, after telling Liam he has to help Harry with something and he’ll call him back later. Louis smiles at Harry when he sees that he has successfully gotten his gown off on his own. 

“Was going to surprise you and get to the bath all by myself,” Harry says. Jokingly, of course; there’s absolutely no way he could do that right now. 

“So sorry for foiling your plan, then.”

After he gets Harry settled on the seat in the shower (which Harry actually really likes; standing in the shower for so long can get boring, and sitting is much nicer), he squeezes Harry’s hip. “You’re finally starting to put on a bit of weight. That’s good.”

Harry looks down at his body. He hadn’t really realized that he lost any. With two fingers, he pokes at the little bit of fat swelling on his lower belly and leans against the shower’s tiles. “Do you know how long it took me to get those abs?” he asks, sighing loudly. It feels wrong to joke about when he’s the reason his body has deteriorated so much. 

Louis laughs anyway. “ _So_ long.”

So the shower that inevitably takes way longer than it ought to isn’t completely boring, Louis plays music on his phone for him. It’s peaceful, and Harry feels completely sated as Louis scrubs at his hair, careful around the scar. 

“Think you could wash some of your body?” Louis asks him, hands still in his hair. Harry hums, leaning back against him more. 

“Yeah. Could.” But he doesn’t want to, not when Louis’ hands feel so nice. It feels so intimate, Louis taking care of him in all these ways. There’s not a single other person on this whole planet that Harry would have ever wanted to see him like Louis has these last few months. Having that much love, respect and trust for someone is the best thing in the world.

“Okay,” Louis says, and he lets out a little laugh. “Noted. I’ll do it.”

Once Harry’s finished up and dried off, he’s sitting on the bed while he waits for Louis to help him get dressed. Louis’ face lights up randomly, and before Harry asks why, he goes over to his bag. “Earlier when you were napping I got bored and went to the gift shop and bought you this.” He pulls out a fluffy purple robe and holds it up so Harry can see. “I don’t know if it’s going to fit very nicely, and it’s not the softest, but I thought it’d be better than those gowns.”

Harry smiles at it and nods. “Yeah, it will be. Thank you.” He reaches out for it and Louis hands it to him, and it’s soft enough for Harry. He gets one arm through on his own, but he struggles with the other side and Louis’ right there to help him. The arms are a little short, and Harry doesn’t care at all. 

“You like it?” Louis asks once it’s all situated. Harry nods.

“I do. So much. Thank you.”

Louis gives him a slanted smile. “I’ve only had to hear you complain about those stupid hospital gowns for the last five months.”

They get settled into bed, and Harry falls asleep snuggled against Louis’ chest, so he ends up spending the night so he doesn’t have to wake him. 

-

Harry’s not really nervous to see Jay or Lottie or Fizzy. He doesn’t know why he’s not, if it’s that he knows they aren’t the type of people to judge anyone for anything or if it’s because they’re seeing him at his best. Whatever it is, Harry’s thankful for it. Talking gets more difficult when he’s stressed, and he doesn’t want to look dumb. 

Jay comes in first, and she immediately rushes over to Harry, who’s sitting all set up with a blanket and teddy bear on the chair, dressed in his robe. It’s not hard to hug her back, which is a sharp contrast from how it was when he hugged his own mum for the first time. She kisses his cheek, and she rubs his back, and she tells him that he’s so happy he’s better. 

“It must’ve been hard,” she says once she pulls back, and she’s holding him so delicately with one hand on his chin and the other petting the top of his hair. “We’re all so proud of you.”

“Thank you.”

“And I would have come and seen you sooner, but my son here is about the most stubborn person on this planet, although you already know that.”

Louis rolls his eyes from where he’s sitting on Harry’s bed. “Doctor’s orders, but whatever, sure, blame me.”

It’s not that Harry wasn’t allowed to see other people, it’s that he was so fragile for so long that nobody wanted to disturb his conditions. Harry is completely fine with that; he would have refused to see anybody when he couldn’t talk, or if he was still wearing a catheter.

Lottie and Fizzy come in, then, and they both have two Starbucks’ drinks in their hands. Lottie hands an iced coffee to Louis while Fizzy comes over and hands Harry a pink drink. It’s heavier than Harry anticipates, and she doesn’t give him a second to get a good grasp on it before she lets it go, but thankfully, he doesn’t drop it. 

“Hello,” she says, dropping a kiss to his head. He smiles at her and thanks them for the drink. 

“We didn’t know if you could have caffeine, so we just got you lemonade,” Lottie says from where she’s sitting next to Louis. “We told them not to put too much sugar in. Hope it’s not gross.”

Louis snorts. “Harry’s been eating ice cream for dinner on the daily. Nobody’s watching his sugar levels, unfortunately.”

Harry makes a face at that, at which Jay makes a sad noise and kisses his cheek again.

“God, I’m sorry, I’ve just missed you loads,” she says, still running her fingers through his hair. “I’m so relieved you’re better.”

“We all are,” Lottie says, nodding. 

The conversation between Louis and the girls picks up once Harry stops actively responding to things he doesn’t necessarily have to. He’s a little tired and overwhelmed, and nobody but Louis notices it, and he immediately swoops in and takes the center of attention off of him. Harry attentively listens and sips his drink and pets his bear, which he has officially named Theodore, Teddy for short. 

After about forty-five minutes, Harry finds himself getting a little spacey in the way he does when he’s tired. It must be obvious, because Louis smiles at him with a soft expression and asks, “You tired, sweetheart?”

All eyes fall on him, and Harry wraps his fingers around the bear’s arm. “A little,” he admits. He glances at Jay. “I’m sorry. Dunno why I’m tired, I took a nap earlier, and -- ”

“Oi, don’t apologize,” she says, shaking her head. She comes over and gives him another big hug before squeezing his cheek softly and saying, “You’ve always needed your beauty sleep, it’s no big fuss. It’s been so good to see you, love.”

“You too,” he says, and shit, yeah, he is tired, he can hear it in his voice.

Louis not-so-subtly shoos them out of the room as soon as everyone’s said their goodbyes, and he gets Harry ready for bed by closing the blinds and turning the light off and putting out the leg rest for him. 

“Sleep, love,” he says softly, patting his legs. “We’ve got a rowdy crowd coming in tomorrow, so you’re going to need it.”

As Harry’s eyes fall shut, he feels himself smile sleepily.

-

The next time he fully wakes, he’s back in the bed, the bear under his arm, and he squints at the ceiling as he tries to remember who put him here. Vaguely, he remembers Louis waking him up to move him to the bed so he could go home and get some proper sleep. Lately, Louis’ been wanting to sleep at the hospital more, but Harry tells him not to worry about it. He sleeps through most nights anyway, only waking up when a nurse checks in on him or when Louis’ coming through the door with his morning coffee. 

Tonight, though, he wakes at 12:51, and he’s wide awake. The remote is too far away on the table for Harry to feel comfortable trying to stretch and get it, so he settles for messing about on his phone. There isn’t much to do on it, though; Louis has strictly banned him from all social media and discouraged him Googling random things in the fear he’ll stumble upon something about him (and Harry’s not stupid enough to break that rule, as he doesn’t want to read a gossipy article about his very serious, very scary medical condtion). He downloaded a few games on his phone, but even though it’s just Candy Crush and Flow Free, it still requires some brain power that he doesn’t necessarily have at one in the morning. 

So he goes to his texts. All of his messages from before have been wiped (although Louis did promise him that he went through and saved anything that looked important or that Harry might have wanted kept), and there’s only a few from the past few months. At first it was because Louis asked everybody to back off until they figured out how much Harry remembered and how he was doing mentally, and now it’s because everyone’s probably too scared to text him directly in case they overstep. Louis’ been trying to keep everyone updated, but things can change from day to day and Louis’ kept busy all day with Harry asking him about a gazillion different things. 

Harry bites on his lip nervously as he composes three separate messages, all saying the same thing, to Niall, Liam and Zayn. _Hi. You awake? All good here just bored x_. He knows better than to just ask if they're awake from when he did that to Louis a few weeks back and Louis thought something was wrong. 

As he waits for someone to respond, he looks through his photo gallery mindlessly. Part of him wonders if the three of them even want to talk to him -- why would they when he hurt them all so profoundly, their careers and their best friend and their lives all heavily impacted by what he did -- but he figures that can’t be true if they’re all coming to see him tomorrow. Besides, they’ve all texted Harry through Louis. 

Except maybe Zayn. Harry can’t remember a time where Louis passed along a message from him. It’s odd, but Harry brushes it off as his memory still being a little shaky. 

Harry’s staring at a picture of Louis and himself in someone’s pool. They’re leaning over the edge, both clearly caught mid-laugh, and Louis has his forehead against Harry’s shoulder. They both look so happy -- genuinely, completely happy -- and Harry checks the date the picture was taken. 

July nineteenth. Less than a month before he tried to kill himself. Which doesn’t make any sense, does it, because he looks so goddamn happy. Before he spirals too far down that hole, Liam texts him. 

_Hiii mate. How are you today? Xxxx miss you loads!!!!_

It’s a simple, somewhat generic message and somehow it’s enough to make his eyes well up and face get hot. Seeing Louis’ family went well today, yet he’s got a feeling tomorrow’s going to be a lot harder. For everyone. Their friendship as a group had become so tight after Zayn left the band (and as he thinks that, he kind of shocks himself because he hadn’t really thought about it; it’s not that he forgot Zayn left, because if you would have asked him he could have told you as much, it’s just. . . he hasn’t consciously thought about it in a long time) and Harry, quite literally, went and blew a giant hole through it. 

He has to apologize for that, doesn’t he? Of course he does. Right?

Unsure, he does anyway.

 _I’m really sorry for everything Liam. I feel so bad for what I did to you guys n louis and I really do regret everything and I just feel so guilty._ He presses send, stares at it, and then adds, _And I miss you too and today was a good day._

It takes Liam three whole minutes to respond, and Harry stares at the screen anxiously for every second of it. When the text pops up, Harry’s stomach churns nervously, and he starts to read. 

_Harry, none of us want you to feel bad. We all love you so much and we were really hurt by what you did but that doesn't mean we’re angry or that we think you’re a bad person. Clearly you were hurting and none of us noticed and you weren’t able to get the help you needed before it was too late. But it isn’t too late, not really, not when you’ve been given a second chance. We’re all here for you to help you make the most of it. All that any of us ask from you is that you’re honest with at least someone. If you’re feeling poorly, tell someone. Please. I wouldn’t be able to take losing you like that._

Through clouded eyes, Harry types, _I will. I have been talking to Louis and a therapist and I promise you i won’t do anything stupid again :(_

 _Good,_ Liam sends. _And I’ll always always always be here for you, for whatever you need. Speaking of which -- what kind of take out do you want??_

It makes him so, so happy that Liam cares about him, and it’s immediately cancelled out by how guilty that makes him feel. He has a husband who adores him and will move mountains for him, supportive friends, a loving family, and he tried throwing it all away. Maybe there’s something he doesn’t understand, maybe he is underestimating just how defeated and upset he must have been, it’s just. . . It feels like he’s suffering the consequences of someone else’s actions because of how little of his motives he understands, and that sucks, especially when the consequences are so severe. 

Before he has a chance to text Liam back, a text from Niall comes through. 

_Ahhhh mate!!! So good to hear from u!!!! Gonna hug the shit out of u tmrw just u wait xxxx_

Harry smiles and decides to let his conversation with Niall remain lighthearted instead of going all serious on him like he had with Liam. It’s not like Liam is going to not tell them all what he said, anyway; they’ve always been like that. Instead, he sends Niall a gif of Lilo and Stitch hugging and adds a heart as a caption. 

Harry’s awake for three more hours, and Zayn doesn’t text him back. He’s probably just asleep.

-

Twenty minutes before the boys are due to get to the hospital, Harry manages to accidentally spill Louis’ lukewarm-but-a-little-on-the-hot-side coffee all over Louis’ lap. 

“Ohh, motherfucker,” Louis hisses, standing quickly and pulling his wet sweats away from his skin. He groans quietly and gives Harry a sad look. “You’re so lucky I have extra clothes. I’d have to knick your robe.”

“Sorryyyy,” Harry says, trying his best to help. All he manages to do is pick up the already-emptied cup off the table and put it right side up. Louis tells him not to worry about it and kisses the side of Harry’s head before rummaging through his bag, grabbing some clothes, and changing into those. He grabs a roll of paper towel from the bathroom and cleans up the mess that Harry made while Harry watches helplessly, and if that doesn’t describe this whole ordeal, Harry doesn’t know what will. 

“Sorry,” Harry says again, once Louis’ done cleaning and sits back down. Harry’s sitting in the big, comfy chair while Louis’ sitting next to him in the chair that’s usually next to Harry’s bed. “Thought I had a good grip on it.”

Louis shakes his head at him and grabs his hand, squeezes. “It’s fine, love. Not a big deal at all.”

It still kind of sucks, though, that Harry can’t manage to hold something that weighs barely anything without dropping it. As he sulks, Louis nudges his knee with his socked foot. 

“Don’t sit there thinking that’s something you wouldn’t have accidentally done before, too,” he says softly. “You’re clumsy as shit, always have been.”

And, well. He’s not exactly wrong about that. 

They sit and watch a movie they started a few nights ago and never got around to finishing as they wait for the boys to get here. Harry’s barely paying attention to the plot, too nervous to watch. He knows he shouldn’t be nervous, knows that they’re some of his closest friends and they’ve missed him so much, but he's nervous anyway. It doesn’t help that Zayn never responded to his text from last night. 

Two minutes ahead of schedule, Niall texts Louis that they’ve just parked and are heading upstairs now. As soon as Louis tells him that, Harry’s heart swoops. 

“Just,” he starts, and he feels awful saying it, but he says it anyway. “Can you try and, like, take control of the conversation? I don’t want it to be awkward.”

“Yeah, babe, ‘course. Won’t be awkward, anyway, since we’re all going to be eating.”

Which is true, and something Harry didn’t consider. Harry picked Five Guys, mostly because it was the first fast food chain that popped in his head, and he knows that they collectively enjoy it. And when Niall comes bursting through the door, Liam and Zayn are in tow with about three bags in their hands each. 

“Ahh, there’s that beautiful face,” Niall says, making a beeline towards Harry. He hugs him so tight, tighter than anybody has dared to yet, and Harry curls his fingers around his jacket and holds him close so he knows that he’s happy to see him, too. The hug lasts maybe a minute, maybe longer, before Louis kicks Niall in the shin and tells him to cut it out, laughing. As he pulls back, Niall kisses his cheek and whispers, “Paid the two of them fifty pounds each to get the first hug.”

That gets a small scoff from Zayn and an offended, “Wha -- that is _not_ true,” from Liam. 

Liam gets the next hug, and he’s much more delicate with Harry than Niall was. Not that he needs to be, but it’s nice anyway. He doesn’t hold him as long, either, and when he pulls away, he gives Harry a soft, childish look before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of Harry’s head. 

And then there’s Zayn, who awkwardly shuffles towards him and gives him a flimsy smile before hugging him harder than Harry expected him to. He was acting so shy before, looking like he wasn’t even sure if he should hug him or not, and now he’s hugging him a bit tighter than Niall managed to. It’s brief, though, and when he pulls back, he doesn’t look as relieved as the other two did. 

“I love you, mate,” he says quietly, just loud enough for Harry to hear, and maybe Louis, too. 

Harry gives him a smile that comes off as a little shy. “Love you, too.” He bites back an apology, only because he doesn’t want to hear a lecture right now. 

Niall makes it his duty to pass out all the food, and really, a greasy, overstuffed burger shouldn’t look so good, especially when they actually have decent food at this hospital, but it does, and God, Harry doesn’t know if he’s more excited for the food or to talk to the boys. 

Obviously that’s an exaggeration. Obviously Harry missed them more than he did food. 

On reflex, Harry hands Louis his food so Louis can cut it up for him so it’s less of a hassle to eat (it’s sort of out of habit now more than anything, along with the fact that he’s usually sore and tired when it comes to dinner time and he doesn’t feel like fighting with his food). Harry regrets it afterwards, especially when he sees Liam eyeing Louis cutting his food curiously, but nobody mentions it, and Harry ignores the quiet shame he feels by drinking the milkshake they got him. 

“It’s so nice to see you vertical again, mate,” Niall says, mouth stuffed full with fries. He grins despite it. “Well, half-vertical, since you’re sitting, but you know what I mean.”

“He’s getting there,” Louis mumbles, concentrating on trying to cut a too-big burger with a crappy plastic knife. “Probably will be walking by the end of the month.”

Walking is a polite term for hobbling on his own with a walker, but Harry doesn’t correct him on it. He just stays sucking on the straw as an excuse to not say anything at all. 

“No shit,” Liam says, grinning. “That’s amazing, H.”

He lets go of the straw long enough to murmur a small, “Thanks,” before biting on it again. 

For the next half hour, they all eat and chat and laugh so loudly that a nurse comes by to shut the door on them. Harry’s mostly a quiet observer in all this, although he is a part of it and nobody seems to notice or mind his slight reservation. Eating and talking and listening to four different voices is a little bit overwhelming for him still, and they all seem to understand it. 

Liam’s telling some animated story about a Bo, which is a name Harry absolutely does not recognize. He doesn’t mention it at first, trying to work out if he’s forgotten it or if it’s new. It’s about three minutes into his story that Harry realizes Bo is a dog, and he rolls his eyes a little at himself. For the last few minutes he’s been picturing a small child eating out of the trash and wondering why everyone else was laughing. 

When there’s a small pause in Liam’s story, Harry clears his throat and asks, “You have a dog now?” and instantly, Liam is rushing over to him to show him pictures of a german shepard and saying no, it’s his girlfriend dog, and oh, right, he’s dating this girl named Maggie, and she’s lovely and Irish and, oh, right, he met her when he was visiting Niall in Ireland, and Harry kind of just stares at the picture on the phone, trying to soak all the information Liam’s giving him all at once. 

Eventually, Louis throws a crumbled up wrapper at Liam and says, “Oi, mate, you’re giving _me_ a headache.”

Sheepishly, Liam goes back to sit on Harry’s bed and apologizes a few rushed times. 

Zayn stays quiet most of the time, like Harry. It’s not entirely out of his character, and Harry understands that it might be weird to be with them all again, but it feels a little more personal than that. Maybe it shouldn’t, maybe it isn’t that way, but that’s how it feels, and Harry hates it.

After about another twenty minutes, Harry is now sipping on Louis’ milkshake and wondering how much longer he can ignore his bladder. For a little while longer, probably, although he’s certain that the three of them plan on staying a lot longer than a little while, so he sucks up his pride and catches Louis’ eye and silently nods his head over to the bathroom.

“Yeah, I’ve got to piss, too,” Louis says, standing up. Niall, who was talking about something to do with Katy Perry falls silent as he sees Louis grab for the walker in the corner of the room. Quickly, Louis daggers a glare in Niall’s direction, one that Harry’s not sure if he’s supposed to notice or not but does anyway, and then Niall starts talking again, more distracted this time. 

He keeps it up until Harry’s hands are on the walker and he’s about to push up, and then he’s quiet again. Harry doesn’t blame him for it; Niall hasn’t seen him on his feet in eight months. He’s allowed to be nervous or excited or whatever else he’s feeling. 

“Alright, lads,” Louis mumbles, hands ready under Harry’s armpits. “Ready to see a magic trick?”

Harry scoffs loudly, cheeks red and warm. “It is _not_ a magic track, God.” He lets out a nervous laugh and, without letting himself feel too much pressure, pushes himself up. It’s not as unsteady as he used to be, and Louis’ arm around his waist isn’t as tight as it once had to be, and yet Niall and Liam and Zayn all look nervous as fuck.

“Not gonna fall,” he says, voice slightly strained as he takes the tiniest of steps forward. He’s been better about trying to put more weight on his right leg lately, although his balance is still off and he walks with a limp. He lets out a small little grunt before saying, “Haven’t fallen yet, anyway. Maybe if I do now, that’ll be the magic trick.”

Louis lets out a laugh from behind him and squeezes Harry’s hip. He likes it when he jokes. 

Like usual, when Harry sits on the toilet seat (because no matter how many times Louis offers to help him pee standing up, he’ll always refuse, not because it’s weird or gross, but because he’s positive he’ll be too pee-shy that way) he takes a few deep breaths, winded from just that. Louis busies himself by fixing up his hair in the mirror and mumbling something about needing to shave until Harry’s done. He helps him up and sits him on the ledge of the bath so he can pee himself, and Harry stares at him in a non-creepily manner. Until he realizes that there is no not-creepy way to watch someone piss, and then he looks away. 

Once Louis’ washed his hands, he comes over to Harry to help him stand again, and Harry tells him to wait. He does, looking down at him worriedly. 

“You tired, love?” Louis asks, smoothing Harry’s hair down. “I can tell them all to fuck off, if you want.”

Harry shakes his head. He’s not tired, not yet. He puts his hands on Louis’ forearms, just to touch him in some way, and asks, “Is Zayn mad at me?” His voice comes out so small and pathetic that it actually embarrasses him, so he clears his throat. “I mean, just -- he seems quiet.”

Louis frowns and sits down next to him on the ledge, making sure to keep a protective arm around his waist. “No, baby,” he says quietly. “No, he’s not mad at you. It’s just. . .”

“Just what?”

“He blames himself, a bit,” Louis tells him, looking apologetic as he does so. “He thinks that what you did has something to do with him leaving the band, and you two hadn’t talked in a while before that, and it. . . He’s been feeling guilty, is all. Probably thinks _you’re_ mad at _him_.”

Harry frowns and looks down at his feet. That couldn’t have been the reason he hurt himself so severely. Zayn left the band months before that, and yes, Harry was heartbroken over it and petty about it, but he understood Zayn’s motives weren’t malicious. It took some time and space for him to get that, but he did. Zayn didn’t like the band anymore, so he didn’t want to be in it. That’s fair enough. 

And poor Zayn has been feeling like Harry tried to off himself because of him, or that he had at least had something to do with it, which is just awful. That’s terrible, and nobody deserves to have that guilt put on them. 

Louis says, then, “And I wasn’t the nicest to him at first. Kinda insinuated that maybe he did have some part in it, which is cruel and I took it back and I don’t believe that, not at all, but.” He shrugs sadly. “Still said it, didn’t I?”

So now on top of everything, he’s got Zayn feeling responsible and Louis feeling responsible for Zayn feeling responsible. Harry really fucked everything up for everyone, didn’t he.

“Want me to send Liam and Niall off on a mission to get us some of those ice cream cups you like?” Louis asks him as he rubs his thumb over Harry’s back. “Give you some time with Zayn?

Harry nods; he needs to at least try and soothe some of Zayn’s guilt over this, and an ice cream cup does sound pretty good about now, even if he has just eaten more in the last hour than he probably has his entire hospital stay. 

Louis helps Harry hobble back to his chair, and once he’s sat down with a loud huff, he sees that Niall has Theodore under his arm and pouts. He doesn’t say anything, though, because he’s not going to tell Niall that he has developed a rather unbreakable connection with a _stuffed bear_. 

“Alright,” Louis says, sitting down on the arm of the chair. “Liam, Niall -- I’ve got a mission for you. Find a nurse who isn’t busy and tell them that their very favorite patient wants his nightly chocolate ice cream cup, and get the rest of us one, too. And grab extra plastic spoons, ‘cause Harry doesn’t like the wooden spoon thingy that comes with them.”

Niall stands and jokingly salutes Louis. Liam looks at Zayn warily. Zayn is glaring at Louis. As the two of them leave, Zayn shifts on the bed, looking uncomfortable, and Harry inhales shakily. Wordlessly, Louis gets up and grabs Theodore off the bed and hands it to Harry, and Harry takes it thankfully and tucks it under his arm, cheeks only a little warm. 

Zayn won’t look at Harry, just keeps looking at Louis or his hands, so after a moment, Harry asks, “Are you mad at me?”

“Of _course_ not,” Zayn says quickly, looking shocked. He’s finally looking at Harry, and now Harry’s the one who can’t look him in the eye. This is a difficult, messy situation, one that he crafted entirely, and he knows he has to fix it, knows that it’s his responsibility, it’s just hard. 

Quietly, Harry says, “Okay, well, I’m not at you, either. Like, I don’t -- I don’t blame you, or whatever.” He sounds like a kid being forced to apologize to their sibling when they aren’t actually sorry, but he is. He _is_ sorry. He doesn’t know why this has to be so hard, and he most certainly doesn’t understand why tears are burning his eyes. 

“Okay,” is all Zayn says, showing just how crappy Harry’s point got across. 

“I mean it,” he says, still not looking up. “I’m not -- I wasn’t mad about you leaving the band before. Not then, anyway. And even if I was, that wouldn’t have been enough to make me. . .” he hesitates, not wanting to say it. “Make me do that.”

“Well,” Zayn starts, and his voice sounds so thick and raw that Harry has to look up. There are tears in his eyes, threatening to spill over, and Harry feels _so_ guilty. “It would have been nice to know that about eight months ago.”

“Zayn,” Louis snaps, voice dangerously low. “Don’t.”

Zayn ignores him. “No, mate, seriously, what were you thinking? You had me thinking I made you do it, you had Louis thinking he didn’t do enough, you had your entire family in fucking shambles. You -- ”

“Zayn,” Louis says again, sharper this time. 

“You wrote a fucking note, and yet you didn’t think to put _why?_ Just put a bunch of fucking -- fucking _nonsense_ , and -- ”

Louis stands, then, and immediately, Zayn deflates. He goes quiet, his eyes drop to the floor and he lets out a shallow breath. 

“He didn’t know he wrote a note, you fucking asshole,” Louis seethes. “Go the fuck outside, smoke enough to get your head back on straight, and then come back up here and shut the fuck up. This was supposed to be a good day for him, and he has a fucking _brain_ injury, in case you’ve forgotten. He’s not supposed to get worked up.”

Zayn doesn’t look angry, and he didn’t sound it before, either. He just looks and sounded hurt and confused and maybe a little betrayed. All completely fair feelings to have, and Harry knew someone was going to get mad at him for this, but he didn’t think it was going to come from Zayn. 

There’s no point in pretending like Harry handles being scolded and told about a suicide note that he didn’t know about before maturely and emotionlessly. He does, however, manage to avoid bursting into tears until Zayn’s out of his room, the door clicking shut behind him. 

“Oh, love, don’t listen to him,” Louis whispers, coming over to wrap Harry up in his arms and hold him close to his chest. Harry clings to him, sobbing wetly against Louis. He’s not _this_ upset, there’s not need for this many tears, but they come anyway and they don’t stop for about five minutes. When they do, Harry sits up shakily and wipes at his face and says he doesn’t want to talk about it right now. 

That catches Louis off guard. He frowns and squeezes Harry’s shoulder. “Babe, I don’t want to just not talk about it.”

Harry scoffs, even though he’s not really angry. “Yeah, well, you’ve _‘just not talked about it’_ for the last five months, so. What’s another few hours?” He rolls his eyes and rubs at his cheeks again. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “Just didn’t expect that.”

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to hurt you,” Louis tells him, sounding very serious. “And because like Zayn said, there wasn’t much in there that answered any questions. I thought it’d hurt you more than it would help you.”

God, Harry couldn’t even write a suicide note properly. What else could he have said in it, if not why he did it?

“I get it,” Harry says. “I’m not mad.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll talk to Zayn later, then, and tell him that the two of you will figure out all this later. There’s no need to do it now. And -- ”

Louis doesn’t finish, because before he can, Niall’s pushing the door open with his bum and saying, “Mate, why didn’t you tell me that there’s, like, loads of hot nurses here? Would’ve come ages ago.”

Liam rolls his eyes and comes over to Harry and Louis, giving them both an ice cream cup. His eyes flick over to the spot where Zayn was sitting, and he doesn’t mention it, just puts Zayn’s ice cream cup on the table. 

“Thanks, Liam,” Harry says quietly, opening the cup. He’s going to miss these. Or maybe not, because Louis’ probably going to buy him ice cream that tastes a lot better and comes in much bigger quantities. 

Zayn comes back about ten minutes later, eyes red and puffy and reeking of smoke. He doesn’t say anything to anyone, just sits and eats his ice cream quietly, and Louis gives him an approving nod. 

They all leave an hour later. Harry’s properly worn out, and they were here much longer than he expected them to be. Not that that’s a bad thing; it isn’t. He had a good time, aside from Zayn’s little rant. And Louis had fun, too, which is good. Harry couldn’t stay sane if Louis didn’t come and stay with him every day, although he fully recognizes that it’s a big, boring ask. 

Before everyone leaves, he gets a big hug from each of them again, and Niall tells him he loves him and Liam says he’s so relieved to see him okay and Zayn says that he’s sorry. Harry thanks them all for coming, and once the door clicks shut, Harry sags against the chair and takes a deep breath. 

Louis laughs, rubbing his shoulder. “Should’ve said if you were getting tired, love.”

Harry shrugs and says that it’s not too bad. He doesn’t have to piss again, which is incredibly annoying, but Louis is as helpful as always and helps him with everything before tucking him into bed. 

“I think I’m going to stay here tonight,” Louis tells him as he lowers the bed. 

Harry frowns. “You don’t have to. I’m okay.”

“Good,” Louis says, and then kisses his cheek. “But I’m too tired to be arsed to drive home right now.”

Harry scoots over so there’s more room in the bed, and Louis gives him another kiss on the forehead before sliding in next to him. The bed’s a little too small for the both of them, but Harry doesn’t mind it. He likes Louis being this close, anyway.

-

He’s absolutely exhausted the next day. So tired that he sleeps in two hours later than normal, and when he does wake up, he eats breakfast and then falls asleep again for about forty-five minutes until he’s due to start physical therapy for the day. It’s absolutely not what he wants to wake up to, and he’s a bit crankier than normal, but nobody seems to mind it too much. They get him standing again, and he manages to hold himself up for a solid minute before they tell him he can sit, which just makes him that much more tired. Happy, too, so happy, but also so, so tired.

“Think you can find it in you to go down to the pool with Marcus later?” one of the physicians asks, clearly joking. Harry makes a grumpy sound. “Tomorrow, then,” she tells him. “Before you leave.”

Harry closes his eyes and snuggles closer to his pillow. “Yipee.”

Louis snorts and tells him to rest, that he can text Jeff and tell him to stop by a little later. Nick isn’t coming by until around six, and Ben can’t make it until four, but Jeff was going to swing by around lunch time, which is in an hour. Harry’s going to be shit company if he’s this tired, so he agrees and goes back to sleep. 

The next time he wakes up, it’s one o’clock and he feels properly awake for the first time today. He stretches out and makes a quiet, sleepy sound before turning over, and Jeff and Louis are staring at him, both looking quite fond of him. 

“Oh,” he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep. “Hi.”

“It’s so good to see you again, man,” Jeff says, standing up. He doesn’t give Harry a chance to sit up properly before he hugs him, which is fine, it just makes the hug a bit loose. When he pulls back, he has tears in his eyes, and shit, Harry can’t remember a time where he cried. Certainly, there’s never been a time where he’s cried over _Harry_ before. “How are you feeling?”

Harry makes another grunting noise as he leans back against the bed again. “Hungry as shit, to be honest,” he says. He sits up, then, deciding he probably shouldn’t be laying down half-asleep when Jeff has waited so long to see him. He clicks the right buttons to make the bed go up so he can sit up easier, and as he does so, Louis kisses him on the head and tells him he’ll go and grab him something to eat.

Once Harry’s settled, he turns his attention back to Jeff and gives him a shy smile. It’s weird; all these visits are supposed to feel celebratory, and they do, to an extent. It’s just a tad weird, considering the circumstances. Considering he was planning on leaving them all for a lot longer than a few lousy months in a coma. 

They talk for a bit about sort of mundane things, like Jeff’s job and wife and house. He’s moved, apparently, and he didn’t feel right about buying it without having Harry’s opinion on it, but he didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t wait any longer. 

Louis comes back with food and while Harry eats, he listens to Jeff and Louis talk about all sorts of things. With just one person here to visit, it’s a lot calmer and Harry feels less stared at. 

And then Ben gets in, with flowers and a card and a box of chocolates. Immediately, _immediately,_ Harry’s stomach drops when he sees him, and he can’t figure out why. It leaves him feeling a little nauseous, though. 

“God, kid,” Ben says once he’s got Harry in a hug. “I’ve missed you so much.”

The weird feeling doesn’t leave. He thinks maybe he’s just nervous, or something, but when Nick comes in, he doesn’t feel the same sort of. . . panic, almost, as he did when he saw Ben. And Ben’s acting awfully nervous, and he keeps staring at Harry -- like, _really_ staring at him -- and Harry does his best to ignore it. 

At one point, Nick scoffs and asks him why he’s got a giant stuffed teddy bear, and Ben’s face lights up and says, “Aw, you kept him. I got that for you ages ago. Surprised Louis didn’t bin it.”

Louis makes an offended face and promises Harry he would never even dream of throwing Theodore out.

“Oh, he’s got a name, does he?” Nick asks, picking the bear off the chair it was sitting on. He’s doing that thing that he does a lot where he acts like he’s totally, completely, absolutely unbothered by everything going on when he’s actually very much bothered. Harry doesn’t blame him at all for that -- if he’s uncomfortable, then he can deal with it however he needs to.

“Yes, he does, thank you very much,” Harry says, stretching over to yank the bear from Nick’s hand. He can _feel_ Louis tense -- both of them are waiting for the day that Harry takes a tumble -- and when Harry sits back against the bed, Theodore now protectively in his grasp, Louis runs his hand over Harry’s arm, probably trying to soothe himself. 

Nick rolls his eyes and plops himself down on the chair. “So, popstar. You getting back to work anytime soon? I’m getting the first exclusive interview, right?”

He’s joking, although Harry has thought about that. He’s not sure what that time table is going to look like; will he get the time he needs to recover, however long that takes, or is he going to be hounded the second their bosses think he’s had enough time off? Shit, the band’s already been out of commission because of him for eight whole months. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes and knocks on their door, asking them politely at first and then threatening them with contracts. 

Harry just shrugs. As weak as it might make him sound, he has Louis to fight his battles for him, and there’s nobody else in the entire world he’d rather be doing it.

-

Nick is the first to leave. He says something about plans to get dinner with Aimee, and he makes a joke saying that Harry could totally come if he wanted to. Harry doesn’t laugh, not when images of him hobbling about everywhere in public flash in his head. Jeff goes not too long after him, saying he’s in charge of dinner tonight and Glenne will kill him if he just buys pizza again. 

Ben stays. Ben stays for a long, long time. Doesn’t leave until it’s nearing eight at night and Dr. Eva stops by Harry’s room to go over his at home treatment plan. Even then, with Dr. Eva looking slightly awkward as she asks Harry if he’s comfortable with her sharing his treatment with someone else in the room, Ben doesn’t look like he wants to leave. He does, though, after giving Harry a tight hug and telling Harry to text him as soon as he gets home tomorrow. 

Once Ben leaves, Harry turns his attention to Dr. Eva, who then rattles off a bunch of information he absolutely does not listen to because she always ends up giving them a written version of what she says. As she talks (“. . . and his physical therapist should continue to see him daily at first, and we expect his therapist to visit with him regularly, and we would like him to come in every month for a check up, and. . .”) Harry plays with Louis’ fingers, tracing the shape of them over and over until she’s finally done talking. 

“Sounds good?” she asks, and Harry gives her his best smile and says yes, it sounds fine. She leaves, and before the door even clicks shut, Louis snorts at him. 

“You totally did not listen to a word she said.”

Harry shakes his head, still looking down at Louis’ fingers. “Not true. Think I heard a couple.”

Louis rolls his eyes and kisses the side of his head. He gets into bed with Harry, then, even though he’s not spending the night tonight. Apparently, there are still some things that he has to take care of before Harry gets home tomorrow. He’s Harry-proofing the house, essentially, which is nice and all, but it’s not like Louis isn’t going to be with him pretty much twenty-four/seven. Yes, Harry would rather that he was able to do things on his own, but even if he couldn’t, he’d have Louis to help.

“I don’t think you understand how excited I am to get you home, love,” Louis whispers, tilting his head to lean against Harry’s. Harry whispers back that yes, he does, because he feels the same way. Louis hums a song softly until Harry falls asleep, something that sounds vaguely like a Joni Mitchell song.

-

That night, Harry has a dream. When he wakes up from it, he’s not sure he wants to call it that. It was more like a memory, just one that he had forgotten. 

It plays out in bright, fast flashes. 

There’s a loud noise, followed by intense pressure and heat. Everything’s hot and black and hot, _fuck,_ his body feels like it’s on _fire_. 

“ _Harry._ Harry, God. _Shit._ ”

“Oh my -- I think he’s still awake, I think -- I said _I think_ , okay, I don’t know, I don’t fucking know.”

Those two phrases chase each other around his head: _I think he’s still awake_ and _Harry, God._ Everything’s black, and he’s never had a dream before that was so dark, that detailed such pain. 

Then he’s in an ambulance, and everything’s loud and chaotic and he’s still so hot, and there’s still so much pressure on his head, and there’s so many different hands on him, so many voices shouting. 

_I think he’s still awake. Harry, God._

He jolts awake, then, and he’s sweating and his heart is racing. The dream could only have lasted a few minutes, yet his robe feels damp with sweat. When he wipes at his forehead, his shaking hand slides through sweat. God, he could use a shower right now. And a glass of cold water. 

He rings the nurse call button (and kind of feels bad for it, because they’re busy working their asses of and he’s going to pull them away from something undoubtedly more important for a bloody glass of water) and as he waits for someone to come to him, he takes his arms out of the robe and sits there, chest still heaving slightly. 

That was Ben’s voice. It had been so raw and so scared and so _Ben_. 

Harry bites on his fingernail, feeling sick to his stomach. 

He jumps when there’s a knock at the door, and his voice shakes when he says they can come in. It's James who comes to aid him, and Harry gives him a thin smile as he asks for something to drink. 

“Yeah, ‘course, one sec.”

He comes back with a cold cup of water, and when he sets it down on the side table he must notice that Harry looks a little off because he frowns and asks if he’s okay.

“Just an awful dream,” he says, shaking his head. “Thank you for the water.”

“It’s not a problem. Do you want someone to talk about it with, though?”

Yeah, he does. Except the only person in the world he would want to talk with is Louis, who is sound asleep at home. Harry smiles politely at James and shakes his head again. “No, I’m okay. Probably just going to ring Louis.”

Which is exactly what he does, as soon as James goes. He feels a little bad about waking Louis up at two in the morning, but he’s shaken and confused and he just wants to talk to him. 

Louis answers the call almost immediately. “Is everything okay?” he asks, sounding worried. 

“Yes. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Oh. Okay, good. Can’t sleep, then?”

And Harry feels downright pathetic saying, “I had a bad dream,” with a wobbly voice and a stuffed bear under his arm. 

“Oh, love. I’m sorry. Do you want me to come up to the hospital?”

Harry sets his head on top of Theodore’s. “No. I’m okay. It’s just. . .” He takes a deep breath. “Was Ben the one to find me?”

There’s a beat of silence before Louis answers. “Did someone tell you that?”

“No. It was in my dream. I don’t. . . it felt like a distant memory, I think. I’m trying to figure out if it was real or not.”

He knows it was, though. With how real it felt, with how much it scared him, with how hesitant Louis sounds. Ben’s the one that found him with a bullet through his head.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Louis says, voice gentle. “Ben’s the one that found you. I, um. I rang him because something didn’t feel right, and I asked him to check on you. I. . . Eventually, I'll tell you the whole story. Whenever you’re ready to hear it, I mean. I’d just rather not do it over the phone.”

Tears are burning his eyelids, so he doesn’t open his eyes. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Was I really awake?” he asks, and he hopes the answer is no. The idea of laying there like he was in his dream sounds tortuous, and he’s hoping and praying that that was something his brain made up in an attempt to fill the gaps in his memory. 

It wasn’t. 

“At first you were, yeah.” Louis’ voice sounds strained, like he’s physically pained to go over this. “Ben said it was, like. Like you were awake, but not -- you couldn’t talk or anything. Or at least you didn’t say anything.”

“Oh.”

Louis clears his throat. “Do you. . . Do you remember that?”

Vaguely. Kind of. “I think so? I remember him talking to someone. The police, probably. And I remember the ambulance.”

Again, there’s silence before Louis answers. This time, it lasts longer. “You weren’t -- um. Sweetheart, you were out the entire ambulance ride. Um. That’s -- that’s when you flatlined. From the second you were carried out of our front door to a few minutes after you got to the hospital, you were gone. So I don’t. . . I don’t think you were awake during that part.”

He might actually throw up. He probably would have by now if he had something in his stomach, but he hasn’t eaten since dinner. To think that he was dead, actually _dead_ , for that long is terrifying. And yet, at that time, he wanted to be dead for so much longer than that.

“Harry,” Louis says carefully when Harry doesn’t respond right away. “You okay, love? I think I’m going to come up to the hospital. I think I’d feel better that way. Is that okay?”

Harry nods, tears rushing out of his eyes. He wants that more than anything. “Can you help me take a bath when you get here? ‘M all sweaty.”

“Of course, love. Of course. I’ll bring you some extra clothes, too.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

He hears the unmistakable noise of nails sliding across the tiles that’s followed by a loud bark and a, “Oi, shut it, Bruce, Jesus.”

God, Harry misses them so much he could _cry._ Which is a stupid thing to think when he’s already crying, but still. 

Louis doesn’t hang up as he gets everything ready and drives over, so neither does Harry. He sits there, sniffling quietly, with the phone pressed to his ear as he waits for Louis to come to him. Once he’s parked in the parking lot, he tells Harry he’ll be right up there before he ends the call. It takes him longer than it should to get to his room, and Harry’s not surprised to see Louis enter the room with two chocolate ice cream cups. 

“Hi, baby,” Louis says softly as he sets a bag down on the floor. He comes over and wipes his tears, which don’t keep falling, thankfully. “Are you okay?”

Harry nods, sniffling. He grabs Louis’ hand and squeezes. “Just hard to think about.”

“I know. I understand.”

“And I feel so bad that Ben was the one to see that.”

Louis nods. “I know. Me too, love. But if he hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here right now. He saved your life. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, voice cracking. “Yes.”

“Good.” Louis presses a chaste kiss to his lips before sitting down on the chair beside his bed. He adjusts the bed, and as he does so, he tells Harry to eat the ice cream before his bath. 

And Harry does, and it makes him feel loads better. As he’s eating, he notices Louis' wearing one of Harry’s sweatshirts. And his sweats, judging by the way they’re folded up at the bottoms. Maybe Louis sleeps in his clothes every night, or maybe it was just tonight. Either way, it makes Harry feel special. 

Louis’ more gentle than normal with him in the shower. Harry can actually do things for himself now, and he probably could completely wash himself at this point, although it is easier when Louis helps him out a little. Louis takes his time washing his hair, and he keeps making sure the water hasn’t gone cold, and he talks to him the entire time in a soft tone. He tells him how nice it’s going to be to have him home, and that Anne’s going to stop by before he leaves to say hello, and how he’s got the entire main floor ready for Harry so they don’t have to bother too much with stairs. He talks about smaller things, too, like the splash of freckles on Harry’s shoulder and his tattoos and how his hair is getting long again, and if he wants, Louis can cut it for him. 

Harry doesn’t respond much, only because he’s still tired and doesn’t want to think about anything at all right now, to be quite honest. 

When they finish up. Louis helps Harry get into normal clothes, a loose t-shirt and some joggers. It’s the first time he’s been in proper clothes in so long, even though Louis has consistently offered to bring him some. Changing into clothes that aren’t giant gowns that he can slip over his head easily or a robe that he can easily get in and out of takes a lot of effort, a lot of trust, and Harry wasn’t in a rush to deal with that all. He’s going home tomorrow, though, and although he suspects he’ll probably continue to lounge around in his robe, it’s time to at least start integrating some normal things back into his life. 

“They’re a little big,” Louis says, tugging on the draw string of his joggers, “but I reckon you’ll fit into them better soon enough.”

Harry, who’s clinging to Louis’ shoulders instead of the walker, shrugs stiffly. “It’s fine. Not too big.” He’s anxious he’s going to fall, and the way his knees are starting to wobble a bit don’t help that at all. Louis must realize, because he carefully guides Harry’s hands to the walker and helps him to bed. 

When he’s finally laying down again, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. Not only does walking around get him winded from the physical strain, it gets him breathless from the mental effort, too. He’s so bloody scared he’s going to fall, even though, at this point, he’d be able to get back up just fine with a little help.

Louis slides into bed next to him, and Harry adjusts so he’s curled into him. Louis squeezes his hip. “Think you’ll be able to go back to sleep?”

“Yeah, probably.” He shifts again, feeling a little uncomfortable. After a few seconds, he realizes it’s because he’s not used to wearing pants with a proper waistband and cuffs at the bottom anymore. “Could you turn the TV on, though? It’s too quiet.”

Louis does, and Harry falls asleep listening to the quiet chattering coming from the TV. This time, he doesn’t dream.

-

The next morning, he’s half-awake and half-listening to the conversation going on between his mum and Louis. They’re trying to be quiet, although it’s not really working. He doesn’t mind it, anyway. Judging by the fact that he can tell how bright the room is even with his eyes shut, he should probably be getting up about now. 

He doesn’t find it in him to get up until Louis answers a phone call from someone. There’s a beat of silence, and then Louis harshly whispers, “You have got to be _fucking_ kidding me,” before leaving the room. 

Harry sits up slightly in time to see Louis close the door, and he frowns, looking towards his mum. “Who was that?” he asks, his voice rough and low from sleep. He leans back against the bed and scratches at his chest. Even though the t-shirt is as thin as the hospital gowns were, it still feels different. 

“I’m not sure,” Anne says, smiling warmly at him. 

He makes an unhappy noise. “He sounded upset.”

“Let’s not worry about it until he comes back, okay?” She gets up from the chair to sit on the edge of his bed, and she runs her fingers through his hair. It’s almost enough to lull him back to sleep. 

Louis doesn’t come back until nearly an hour later, and by then Harry’s sitting up and picking at his breakfast. Something’s wrong, something has made Louis upset, and the only thing Harry can think of is maybe he’s not allowed to go home today and anymore. The idea itself is enough to make his stomach churn, so he hopes that’s not the case. He hopes it’s something else.

But Louis still looks pissed off when he returns, his jaw set tightly and his face pinched. Some of it goes away when he sees that Harry’s up, and he smiles at him and sounds relatively happy when he asks Harry how his breakfast is, but Harry can still see it on his face. Something’s bothering him. 

“Who were you talking to?” Harry asks, staring down at his plate. “On the phone. You sounded mad. Is everything okay?”

Louis hesitates in the same exact way he does every time he’s not sure how to tell Harry something difficult. Something he’s not going to want to hear. “Let’s talk about it after your physical therapy, okay? We don’t need you in a crappy mood for that.”

Tears well in his eyes, even though they shouldn’t. It’s so easy to get him to cry nowadays, it’s kind of ridiculous. He does his best to keep any sadness out of his voice when he talks, although he isn’t sure it works very well. “Am I not allowed to go home anymore?”

He tries to tell himself that it’s okay if he can’t, that if anything, they’re only going to keep him here a few more days, but even that sounds horrible. He wants to be _home._

“Of course you can,” Louis says, grabbing his hand. “We’re going home, love. I’m not going to let anyone stop that from happening.”

“Okay,” Harry says, sniffling quietly. If that’s the case, if he’s not being denied leaving, then there’s nothing to be upset about. If Louis feels comfortable enough to leave it be for a few hours before telling Harry, then it’s probably not a big deal, anyway. 

-

Apparently, there’s a shit ton of paparazzi and fans outside. Of a hospital, because that’s an entirely appropriate thing to do. It makes Harry panic slightly; he’s not ready for people to see him yet as much as he isn’t ready to see others. And the idea of beings swarmed and mobbed and hurt terrifies him, even after Louis tells him that they’re going out the back door where absolutely nobody else is allowed and nobody will even be able to get so much as a glimpse at him, let alone get near him. 

Still. It’s a horrifying thing to grasp.

Once Louis recognizes Harry’s reluctance, he suggests that maybe they wait another few more days. That, this time, they’ll get his release date more of a secret and they’ll leak a fake one to the press beforehand, and Harry doesn’t even consider that before he says no. 

“I want to go home,” Harry tells him pitifully, sniffling from ever-present tears and because he got a little cold in the pool. “I don’t -- I just want to go home.”

Louis rests his hands on his cheeks, presses a firm kiss to Harry’s forehead, and says, “Then we’re going home.”

It’s a bit dramatic, the process of getting him out, although he appreciates everyone’s efforts. Anne leaves first, maybe as a decoy, and she’s going back to Holmes Chapel for a little while, so he won’t see her for a bit. They stick Harry in a wheelchair to make things go quicker, and he has his hood up and noise-cancelling headphones on that Louis got from somewhere. He told Harry very sternly not to take them off, to just keep them on and watch whatever he feels like on his phone. 

“It’s overwhelming,” Louis tells him. “I don’t want you to hear them or even look at them, okay? It’s too much sometimes. It was overwhelming to you before, so I don’t want to risk getting you too stressed out now.”

Harry just nods, anxiously petting Theodore’s fur. 

As he’s wheeled through the back door, he braces himself for -- well, he doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but he’s expecting _something_. But there’s nobody out back and no noise manages to leak through the headphones, so Harry feels loads better and focuses back on his phone. A nurse helps Louis get him the car, which has tinted windows and the partition up, so it’s just Harry and Louis. 

Once Harry’s comfortable, Louis knocks on the partition to let the driver know they’re ready, and as the car moves forward slowly, Louis gives Harry a stern look and points down at his phone, probably telling him to only focus on that. Harry obliges, knowing full well that Louis has his best interest in mind and he can blindly listen to whatever he says. 

About fifteen minutes later, the partition rolls down and Harry glances up. The driver says something to Louis that makes Louis roll his eyes and curse, and then he says something that’s punctuated with exaggerated hand motions. Harry kind of wants to know what’s going on, but he also knows that Louis will take care of it, so he goes back to the TV show on his phone, trying to concentrate. 

A minute or two later, Louis squeezes Harry’s wrist and motions for him to take his headphones off. He does, and Louis gives him a soft smile as he says, “We’re home, love. We’re gonna go through the back door, though, okay? The press is out front and I don’t want to deal with that right now.”

Harry nods, heart hammering out of his chest out of nervous excitement, and he puts his headphones back on. Louis opens the car door and Harry sees that they’re in the backyard, meaning they’re behind a tall, dense gate that the photographers won’t be able to get pictures through. He’s safe from any prying eyes from here on out. 

Unless they’ve called in helicopters. Harry doubts it’s _that_ slow of a news day, but hey. Clearly everyone knew that he was getting out today; maybe they decided to put some resources in. Doesn’t matter, though, because Harry’s fairly confident they haven’t managed to snap any pictures of him so far.

Harry’s door opens and Louis’ standing there with a walker, since there are a couple stairs they have to get up. No sense in trying to make it up them with a wheelchair, especially considering Harry should be fine walking. With help, obviously, but he can do it. He can.

It’s a little shaky, and Harry nearly trips up the final stair, but they make it to the door. That’s what counts. The driver helps them prop open the door while Harry gets in, and relief floods through his veins and he steps inside and sees their kitchen, because it’s physical proof that they’re _home_. Fucking _finally_. 

Louis helps him to the breakfast bar, and getting into that high of a seat is a little awkward, although they manage it. As Harry leans back against the seat, he realizes the stools here before didn’t have backs to them. Louis probably bought new ones so they’d be more Harry-friendly, which he appreciates endlessly. 

“Sit here while I get our stuff in, ‘kay?”

Harry nods, but before he lets Louis go, he grabs his forearm. “Where are the dogs?” he asks, pouting only a little. He can hear them barking, but they aren’t coming for him. Surely, they’d come investigating if they could do so. 

“Ah, I’ve locked them in our room until we get you settled. They’ll knock you down on your arse in a second and you know it.” He grins at Harry, and Harry has to smile a bit at that, too. They totally would. 

While Louis’ outside, Harry looks around the kitchen. Nothing has changed drastically, not that he was expecting that he would. The only real change he notices is that the stools are different. Part of him wants to get up and get himself a cup of water, or maybe juice if Louis’ got that in the fridge, and he would if it wasn’t for how tall the stool is. He doesn’t feel comfortable trying to get down from here on his own, especially considering the fact that his walker is so much lower than the stool. 

So, he waits. Not too long; Louis has everything in from the car in under ten minutes, including the wheelchair from the hospital which makes Harry frown, even though he gets it. There’s bound to be at least a few occasions where a wheelchair will just make more sense. And even if there’s not, he’s sure Louis will find some creative ways to make use of it. 

“Alright,” Louis says, followed by a large exhale. He really has been putting so much effort into Harry. Harry doesn’t understand how he hasn’t burned himself out yet. “Where do you want to relax? Our room, the living room, somewhere else. . . it’s up to you.”

He kind of wants to sit outside. He probably could get away with it without the press catching him, although he doesn’t feel like being paranoid right now, so he settles for the living room. He doesn’t want to keep laying in a bed all day. So Louis gets him set up on the couch, facing the TV, and he’s got their soft, silk blankets that Harry spent too much money on however long ago over his lap. It’s kind of exactly what he’d be doing if he were still at the hospital, but it’s _so much better_ because the TV is bigger and _theirs_ and he’s in his _house_ , in his living room with the dark rug they picked out together and the black leather couches and the artwork on the walls that Harry still smiles at every time he sees because of how confused Louis was at it the first time Harry brought them home. Theodore’s tucked safely on top of a cabinet so the dogs don’t get it, so that’s different, but it’s okay. 

And their dogs are around here somewhere, which Harry not-so-patiently asks about again. 

“Okay, okay, hold on,” Louis says, standing up. He looks so fucking _happy,_ and Harry hopes he looks the same way. 

Harry hears it as soon as the door opens, freeing the dogs. Instantly, there’s nails skidding across the tiles and heavy breathing a few random barks that he suspects are coming from Clifford. Harry has no time to prepare; one second he sees a flash of fur, the next there are two oversized dogs jumping on him and squirming on him and fighting to get his attention. It’s slightly overwhelming, trying to pet them and love them both while simultaneously avoiding getting their tongues in his mouth and jabs to tender parts of his body. 

“Oi, you two,” Louis mumbles, although there isn’t much he can do to get them to stop. And Harry doesn’t _want_ them to stop, not one bit. He’s missed them so much, and clearly, they’ve missed him, too. 

Bruce is the first one to settle down. He lays directly on Harry, his head resting against his chest as Clifford still squirms and yips beside them. Between Harry petting them and Bruce calming down, Clifford eventually does, too, choosing to lay right next to Bruce. So now Harry’s got two large dogs on him, and they’re both staring at him, and shit, Harry loves them both to death. 

And, like always, there is a small part in the back of his head reminding him that he was willing to leave them forever. That, if he had been successful in his attempt, they would never know where he went and would never get to see him again. 

He sits there, in his own little world, pouring all his attention into the dogs. Eventually, he glances up to see Louis taking a photo, and Harry makes a grumpy face. He doesn’t actually mind it, though. Nothing could bother him right now. 

-

Louis cooks him a proper meal the first night, lasagne with biscuits, and they eat it at the dining table like civilized people. They almost always ate together before, but usually not at the table. For some reason, it means a lot to Harry. Like, he knows Louis is trying, of course he sees that and appreciates it and could never pay him back for it, but for him to pay attention to the smaller things, too, it’s. . . Harry doesn’t really know. It’s just always nice to be reminded that you’re loved, he supposes. 

They set off for bed early, only half past eight, and Harry never realized how uncomfortable the hospital bed must’ve been, or maybe just how comfortable their bed is, until now. He practically sinks down into the mattress, the perfect mix between soft and firm, and he lets out a quiet little groan. 

Louis laughs. “Glad to hear you like it.”

“I do,” Harry agrees, nodding. 

The dogs join them not too long afterwards, and it’s a bit harder to cuddle with Louis when they have two big dogs feeling awfully protective of Harry and wanting to be right next to him, but they make it work. 

At the hospital, Louis always waited for Harry to fall asleep before either leaving or falling asleep himself. Tonight, he falls asleep first, and Harry stays awake for a bit, thinking. 

He’s been given a second chance, one that he probably doesn’t deserve. Every day, thousands of people die by accident. Freak, tragic accidents. And they don’t heal, they don’t get a second chance, they just die. Harry willingly shoots himself in the head and gets to walk out of the hospital less than a year later. Why? How is that fair? It’s not. It’s also probably not fair that he has someone so loyal and devoted and caring in his corner. Not a lot of people have someone like Louis. 

He’s been given a second chance. He’ll never really know why, or how. All he can really do is try to make the most of it. 

\------------

_**HARRY STYLES GOES HOME: A DEEPER LOOK INTO HIS MIRACULOUS RECOVERY** _

**_HARRY STYLES & LOUIS TOMLINSON RETURN HOME -- DETAILS INSIDE!_ **

**_ONE DIRECTION: A WORLD OF SECRETS, TRAGEDY AND DECEIT. HERE’S WHY THEY (PROBABLY) AREN’T COMING BACK._ **

**_MALIK CONFIRMS STYLES’ RETURN HOME IN YET ANOTHER TWITTER RANT AIMED AT TABLOIDS: ‘DO YOU EVER THINK THAT MAYBE YOU PEOPLE ARE THE REASON WHY HE DID IT?’_ **

\------------

Being at home is beneficial to Harry in more ways than he can even explain. 

After the first few days, he has more energy than he has since he woke up. He wants to do things, even if it’s as small as folding laundry or helping Louis put away the dishes. Every morning, he makes his way outside to sit on the back deck and play with the dogs. It keeps him feeling productive and the dogs content. After about two weeks, he’s back to cooking, which Louis appreciates greatly, even if he doesn’t say it out loud. 

It’s so nice. He feels normal again, like instead of being this medical miracle or whatever the fuck Dr. Oz was going on about on TV the other day, he’s just a guy whose body sometimes doesn’t want to work with him. His limitations are so minor at this point that he doesn’t really think about them; yeah, he still uses a walker, and yeah, he hasn’t ventured upstairs or downstairs yet, but he can do everything else. There was a point he couldn’t even talk, so he’s beyond grateful. 

He has his bad days, of course. Days where he has headaches so severe that Louis calls a doctor over, days where he’s sore from physical therapy and doesn’t feel like moving at all, days where he gets into small tiffs with Claire that leave him grumpy. The talk-therapy is probably the hardest part for Harry; he’d much rather focus on right now, on this life he understands and knows, rather than discussing what he did and why he did it. She tells him that if he wants to be sure this doesn’t happen again, they have to talk about it, which always makes Harry wildly defensive because it’s never, ever going to happen again. 

He fell for the first time a few days ago. He was outside playing with the dogs while Louis was inside making breakfast, and he stood up to grab the ball from Bruce, and Clifford got a little too eager and came running, knocking straight into his legs. He just fell flat on his ass, nothing too bad, and he managed to get up on his own, thankfully. It was still a little terrifying; he keeps thinking about it, keeps thinking, _shit, what if I had accidentally hit my head on the cement?_

On the third night of being home, Harry and Louis were intimate for the first time. It just felt right, the right time and right place and right feeling. It was nothing too intense, but when you take two men still in their early twenties who haven’t gotten off in ages, all it takes is a little bit of grinding and rough kisses. It probably would have led to sex, but they both felt so. . . awkward, almost. Which is insane, considering they’ve been together for years and years and it’s never felt awkward before. Not like this, not like how it felt as if there was this third presence in the room, being Harry’s issues. Louis was worried about hurting him or rushing him, and Harry was spending every last second up until he came frantically wondering if he screwed his body up in all sorts of ways, and what if he couldn’t get hard or stay hard, and what if he couldn’t come, and what if he was still too uncomfortable in his skin to get Louis off adequately, and what if, what if, what if, what if. 

It’s not like it wasn’t good. It was. It’s always good with Louis. But it was definitely a trial-run, and now that they have gotten the basic worries out of the way, they’re more comfortable with each other in that way again. It’s not like they’re fucking like animals every night, they’re not, they haven’t even have proper sex yet, but they have done other stuff that felt less stressful than the first time. 

In almost every way possible at this point, Harry has his life back. Yes, his brain doesn’t work with him sometimes. Yes, he still struggles to walk on his own. Yes, he has doctors in and out of his house almost every day. But he also has his relationship back on every level, and he’s in his house, and he’s with his dogs, and he’s talking to his mum every morning and texting his sister daily. Aside from his career, which he is blissfully ignoring right now, the only thing he’s missing in his life are his friends. 

Louis isn’t telling him he can’t talk to anyone yet, he’s just discouraging it. He needs to focus on himself, needs to adapt to the change of pace. And Harry understands that. He’s secretly thankful for it, too. He doesn’t want to make himself vulnerable to so many people. They’re his friends, and of course he trusts and loves them, but he also keeps picturing how upset Zayn was with him and how nervous he made Nick and how anxious Ben was around him. 

Louis starts encouraging him to talk to other people after only two weeks of him being home. Harry doesn’t feel quite ready for that, though, likes being in his bubble with Louis, but after some pressure from Claire and Louis and his mum, Harry decides by the third week to start reaching out to people. 

Since he has absolutely no idea who he wants to speak to first, or who even wants to hear from him, he tries to stick to people who he hasn’t gotten to see yet. 

Taylor is the first one he texts, and there’s absolutely no logic behind it. It just feels right; they aren’t close enough for it to be this huge, emotional thing, but they’re friendly enough for it to be in the ordinary. Besides, he vaguely remembers her sending him flowers, and he should at least thank her for that. 

_Hiii. Just checking in. Hope you’re well x And thanks for the flowers xxx_

She doesn’t respond right away, which makes him stupidly anxious, so he texts a few other people a gist of the same message. At first just Kendall and Alexa, but then he texts Meri and Glenne, too. And then Lou and Xavier and James Corden. Belatedly and breathlessly, he realizes he’s terrified nobody's going to respond. That everyone’s going to scoff at their phone when they see that he has texted. Or even worse, that the only reason anybody is going to respond is out of pity, not because they’re happy to hear from him or miss him, but because he put a hole through his head and they feel like they have to be careful with him now. 

When Kendall calls him, he answers so quickly and with such a loud sigh of a relief that he wonders if maybe this had something to do with it. With the why. Maybe he thought nobody really cared about him. 

“Harry,” she says, and no, that’s not the sound of pity, that’s relief and joy. He’s heard enough pity these last few months to know the difference. “Hey, how are you?”

He feels so small, suddenly. 

“Okay,” he says. “Fine. I’m at home now, I don’t know if you’ve heard. . . ”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did. That’s great.”

“How have you been, then?”

He shuts his eyes, his knees folded up to his chest. He sets his head on them as she talks about work and her brother and her new boyfriend. Louis’ cleaning up the kitchen and Harry’s in their room, on the bed. The door’s shut, which is unfortunate because he would have a dog or two in here with him if it wasn’t. 

He’s not a lonely person, but as soon as he’s left by himself, it’s almost as if he shrinks. It’s like if he doesn’t feel needed, then he’s useless. Like people are going to forget about him and move on and get new boyfriends that he’ll hear about next year. 

There’s absolutely no point in being bitter, especially when he’s the reason why he’s been left out of so much. 

He’s not sure why he feels so shitty all of the sudden. A few minute ago, he was relieved to hear from someone who cared about him, to be reminded that he has so many people in his corner, and now he feels like a small, frail human who will never forgive himself for being so fucking selfish. 

Kendall and he talk for about a half hour, just catching up. Except there’s not much that Harry’s eager to catch her up on, so he mostly just listens to her talk. When she’s pulled away by something, she sounds regretful, like she doesn’t want to let him go yet, but Harry tells her that it’s okay and that he’ll talk to her later.

When he hangs up and his phone goes to his home screen, he has seven unread messages, all with a bunch of kisses and exclamation points and happy emojis. Again, being reminded that people do actually care about him sends relief ripping his veins. Maybe he’s just got to work on not forgetting that. 

-

He’s honest with Louis. About everything. Sometimes he thinks he overshares, that maybe Louis doesn’t need to hear about every little thing that makes Harry feel a little bit down, especially when he has a therapist for that, it’s just. Louis’ with him twenty-four/seven. He knows how to read Harry, and him having a hunch saved Harry’s life in August. So maybe, if Harry doesn’t get in the habit of keeping things tucked away for himself, if he tells them to Louis, Louis will be able to stop him from doing something stupid and reckless before he’s already done it. 

Not that he doesn’t have any control of himself. He does; Harry fully acknowledges that he can only depend on Louis so much when it comes to Harry’s own mental well-being. With the physical things, it’s harmless to rely on Louis, but when it comes to his own mental health, it’s his responsibility to look after himself. Keeping Louis in the know is part of him doing that. 

So Harry tells Louis that sometimes, for some reason, he feels himself thinking that nobody actually cares or that he forgets that people do. Louis listens attentively, and he talks him through it, and that’s nice and all, but Harry waking up to Louis taping the cards and letters he got from his friends and family while he was in the hospital to the wall near Harry’s side of the bed -- that’s about the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him. It makes him forget that part of his brain that’s questioning people’s intentions. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Louis says, smiling at him as he smooths a piece of tape against the wall. Harry’s pretty sure that Louis wasn’t the thing to wake him, but instead it was Bruce sniffing at everything that Louis pulls out of the box. 

Which, right. There’s a decent sized cardboard box at Louis’ feet, and it’s decently full with cards and notes and little signs with positive affirmations on them. It’s far more than what was taped to Harry’s wall in his hospital room, and it makes his chest tighten with emotion. 

“Hope you know I already did the rest of the main floor, too,” Louis says, grabbing another card from the box. He tapes it to the wall, and it looks like he’s going for a heart-shape, but it’s gone a little wonky. “We’ve gotten loads of these. I stopped putting them up in your room after, like, the first two weeks. And I haven’t even been to our house in California since everything happened, so I can only imagine how much more there is of all this stuff.” Louis points at the light purple card in the center of the wonky heart. “This one’s from Stevie Nicks.”

Harry’s stomach drops and he sits up to get a better look. “No shit, really?” He’s grinning -- Stevie Nicks? What the hell? -- but that persistent, annoying voice in the back of his head is reminding him that he’s stoked that one of the people he looks up to gave him a card because he tried to _kill himself_. And, of course, it dampens his smile a bit, but. . . it’s Stevie Nicks. Hard to not be happy about that. 

Louis nods, and he tapes a final card to the wall, completing the wonky heart, before sitting down next to Harry in bed. He puts his hand on the back of Harry’s neck, rubbing over the baby hairs there. “And you know I don’t want you on social media yet, but there’s thousands of positive messages for you on there, too. _Millions._ Don’t even think for a second that nobody truly loves you, ‘cause it’s just not bloody true.”

Harry nods, biting down on his bottom lip. 

“Now,” Louis says, standing up. “I’m going to go make us some pancakes. Is there anything you need help with before I go?”

He kind of wants to lay in bed for a bit more, but if Louis’ making breakfast he might as well get ready for the day. “I’ll shower, I think,” he says. “But we don’t have any towels in this bathroom and I don’t feel like trying to attempt going downstairs to get some towels, so could you please get them for me?.”

“I’ve actually moved the washer and dryer upstairs, but yes, I’ll grab some for you.”

Harry hadn’t noticed, and he’s not sure where Louis might have put them, but knowing Louis, they’re probably sitting in the middle of the hallway. He thanks him before swinging his legs over the side of the bed so he can get prepared to stand up. Louis doesn’t help, and he hasn’t since Harry asked him to try and let him do it on his own now, but he does stay close by. Harry stands, and, like always, takes a minute to get used to it and perfect his grip on the walker before starting to move around. He’s always so much more cautious when the dogs are around, so he trails behind Louis and Bruce. 

He still puts more weight on his left leg than he does his right. It’s an issue he’s trying to work on, but it’s a bit hard, considering sometimes he finds his right side stalling a bit on him. Only occasionally, and it’s not anything too severe, but the physical therapist who comes to the house, Sebastian, says that he might have to transfer to a cane before ditching any walking aids at all. 

Harry didn’t like that one bit, and the idea made Louis cringe, but he’s shit out of luck, isn’t he. If he has to walk with a cane for the rest of his life, or even just a limp, then it’s far less than what he probably deserves, all things considered. 

Harry gets to the bathroom, and he still sits down to pee and honestly, the idea of having to stand up to do it is losing its appeal. He gets the shower on, sets it to the right temperature, and then waits for Louis. For the towels, and because the tub’s ledge is a little high for him to feel comfortable getting over it himself. 

“Leave the door open, okay?” Louis says, just like he always does. Like Harry is going to get out of the tub to shut the door to try and preserve some allusion of privacy that he gave away a long time ago. “So I can hear you if you need me.”

Harry nods from where he’s sat on the little bath seat Louis got installed for him. It only occurs to him about ten minutes later when he’s washing his feet that maybe Louis isn’t as much worried that Harry will fall or need him for something as he is that Harry will try something again. 

They had this talk, this awkward, uncomfortable talk, the second morning Harry was home. Louis told him very sternly that he wasn’t going to hide the knives or scissors or shaving razors (although Harry has yet to manage to shave by himself thus far; Louis always finds a reason to help) from Harry. He told him that he had every sharp object in the entire house packed in a bin several times over, but he unpacked it every time because he knew that he had to learn how to trust Harry again. 

Louis had gotten emotional when he said, “And if you make me regret that, I don’t think I could ever forgive you for it. I don’t -- I don’t blame you for what you did in August, I can’t, and I found it in my heart to forgive you for it a long time ago, but I’m telling you right now, Harry. If you ever do that to me again, I couldn’t forgive it. I couldn’t forgive it a second time.”

Harry felt scolded and talked down to, even though he knew it wasn’t like that. Louis had every right not to trust him; Harry gave him about the best reason in the world not to. But it’s rare that Louis shows him just how badly Harry hurt him, so when he’s forced to see it, it’s difficult. He tried to hold Louis that night like Louis has held him every night since he woke up. 

After realizing this, Harry’s a little more apprehensive about calling out to Louis -- what if he thinks he’s hurt himself, what if his heart drops, what if he scares him -- but he decides he’s done it every other time he’s showered without him and Louis hasn’t gotten shaken up by it, so he might as well not stop now. 

“Lou,” he calls, his voice softer than normal. “I’m finished. Could you help me when you have a minute?”

Louis' response is immediate. “‘Course, love, one sec.”

As Louis helps him get dried off and dressed, Harry considers saying something. Saying anything, even if it’s only another apology. He goes back and forth with it, and it’s when Louis’ brushing through his hair for him even when Harry can do it by himself that Harry decides to open his mouth. 

“Thank you for trying to trust me,” he says, voice low. “I know that it’s probably really hard for you.”

Louis pauses before dropping a kiss to Harry’s shoulder. It’s all he says, but it’s enough. 

-

Ben comes by to drop off a box of donuts exactly a month into Harry being back home. 

Harry’s snoozing on the couch with Clifford, mostly asleep but also vaguely aware of things going on around him. So when there’s a soft knock on the door, he hears it and it wakes him a little more. That, and Clifford jumping off him like he’s a launchpad. 

He groans quietly, and Louis comes in from the kitchen and tells Clifford to be nice to his dad before he answers the door. Harry has to sit up and stretch a bit to see Ben, who sounds nervous when Louis says hello. 

“I probably should’ve texted first,” he keeps saying. “But I was at the bakery picking some things up for Meri, and I don’t know, I know he’s got a sweet tooth lately,” Harry snorts at that, thinking about the gallon of ice cream in the freezer, “and I don’t know, I should’ve texted, I know this is usually the time he takes his nap, but -- ”

“Ben, mate, it’s fine,” Louis says, and he sounds a little concerned. “You’re welcome to come by whenever. Anybody is now, I told you all that. I understand being a little hesitant, but you don’t have to feel like you’re intruding. It’s fine.”

Harry debates on whether or not he should get up to say hello, and as soon as his brain reminds him that Ben had to see his half-dead body on the bathroom floor (and then actually dead body on a stretcher) he decides to get up. He tries to be quiet about getting up, but Louis hears him as soon as he shifts. He’s always on such a high-alert around Harry, trying to anticipate what he’ll need from him, and it makes Harry feel guilty. Louis gives him a subtle nod before turning his attention back to Ben, allowing Harry to come to the door without any pressure. 

Just like the last time, Ben looks beyond relieved to see him. “Hey, H,” he says, practically beaming. “It’s good to see you on your feet, mate. I got you some donuts.”

Harry’s not sure if he’s always had this bad of a sweet-tooth and ignored it better before, or if it’s new. Either way, his mouth waters at the thought of more sweets. “Thank you.” He adjusts his hold on the walker so he can lean more of his weight on the left side (and he can see Louis frown disapprovingly at it, but his knee is hurting a bit). “Thanks for thinking of me.”

The thing is, Ben obviously hasn’t forgotten what he saw. And he knows that Harry knows about it now. And Harry knows he knows, and yet they’re not going to talk about it. Maybe now’s an inappropriate time to talk about it, anyway, when Ben’s just dropping off some donuts. But Harry’s going to eventually talk to him about it, and he’s kind of hoping Ben will be the one to bring it up. As time passes, he’s got a feeling it won’t be that easy. 

“Of course, Haz.”

“Do you want to come in for tea?” Louis asks him. “I’ve just made some for the two of us. I can do up a third no problem.”

Ben shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. Meri’s waiting on me. But thanks, yeah? Maybe soon?”

“Yeah, sure. Anytime.”

“Cool.” He shoots Harry another sheepish smile before handing Louis the box of donuts and saying a final goodbye. Harry watches him walk off, and as soon as his car door is shut, Harry says, “Kind of terrifying to think I’ve absolutely traumatized him. And you, too. And probably my mum.”

Louis closes the door before he responds. He looks a little reluctant, and Harry usually tries not to say anything too depressing out of the blue like that, but he didn’t think about it. “He’s been in and out of therapy. He’s dealing with it.”

God, Harry put Ben in _therapy_. He glances away, and he hates how quick the knot in his stomach forms lately. 

“Hey,” Louis says softly, touching his arm with his knuckles. “Nobody wants you to feel guilty, we just want you better.”

“I guess,” Harry mumbles, still frowning. That doesn’t seem fair; he put them through all this mess, and him getting better is enough to fix it? It feels like a cop-out, like he’s not taking enough accountability. However, he knows deep down that he is taking responsibility for it. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t feel so guilty. 

At least, he hopes that’s true. 

“Come on, then,” Harry says, turning around. It’s always a bit of struggle to do so, but he’s getting the hang of it and hopefully it’s becoming smoother. “Let’s get a look at those donuts.”

Louis laughs and follows him to the kitchen. 

-

Since Harry has yet to go outside, too scared to face the public, their backyard has become his happy place. He feels more free out here, more at peace. Not that he doesn’t feel at peace inside, it’s just. . . it’s different. A change of scenery. 

He goes outside every morning with the dogs, and usually ends up out again sometime in the afternoon. Whenever Louis’ talking to someone on the phone, whenever the conversation inevitably shifts to him and he doesn’t want to listen to him have to reassure the person over and over that Harry’s okay, he slips outside (as graceful as someone with a walker and a small limp can). As soon as Louis tells him one of their bosses is calling, Harry makes himself scarce, too scared to hear any part of that. 

Louis’ talking to Simon right now. Like usual, Harry left to sit outside on the bench, listening to some music and watching the birds. He’s been out here for almost an hour already, which he doesn’t mind at all. A half hour ago, though, Louis came out looking incredibly annoyed and said, “Hey, H, he just wants to talk to you for a sec. He won’t shut up about it.”

And when Harry had shrunk on himself at the idea and said no, Louis nodded sympathetically and went back inside, muttering, “Simon, I told you, he doesn’t want to talk about any of that crap right now. It’s not important.”

Getting back into their career is the only thing, the _only t_ hing, he can force himself to quit stressing about as soon as he starts. It’s absolutely not a priority for him. For the other boys, either, if Louis is being honest, which Harry is sure he is. Plus, it wouldn’t look good for Harry to be dancing behind a walker, would it. It just doesn’t make sense right now, and that’s that. 

Harry focuses on the clouds, trying to figure out what they resemble, until that gives him a headache. After that, he lays down against the bench and focuses on nothing at all. It’s nice like this. Existing without doing any of the harder bits. 

Louis comes out to sit with him twenty-five minutes later. He already seems stressed, so when he burns through three cigarettes back to back, it’s a confirmation more than anything. Harry stays quiet until Louis reaches for his pack again. 

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging his thigh with his toes. “Cut it out. Talk to me.” Louis puts his pack down but he doesn’t say anything for a minute, just chews on his bottom lip. “What does he want me to do?” Harry asks quietly, knowing that is most likely the issue. 

“They want a lot of things,” Louis admits. “They want me to give some clarity on our relationship, which I’m absolutely not going to do. They want you to do an interview, which is far too early to do. And now they’re asking you to post some feel-good bullshit on Twitter, which is stupid. They don’t get to ask you to to open up about it before you’re ready.”

Harry hasn’t given much of a thought to that, Louis having to deal with them being outed. He didn’t think about it at all. He kind of assumed, judging by the way Louis was at his bedside every day and night. The press would have caught word of that; the press catch word of everything. 

Still, it’s yet another thing Louis had to endure alone. It’s another thing that Harry forced onto him. 

He wonders if he thought any of this through before he tried to kill himself. He must have. He had an entire year to reflect on it, at the very least. After he bought the gun, surely he would have thought about the consequences. And if he had thought it through, if he realized how much hurting he would cause and did it anyway. . . . well, then maybe he doesn’t know himself at all. 

Louis reaches over to squeeze his ankle. “Do you want to go for a drive?” he asks. “Or do anything in particular? I don’t want you feeling like we have to stay home all the time.”

Harry’s not ready for the outside world yet. Going to the doctor’s to get check-ups every month is enough for him. Thankfully, the amount of appointments he has is going to start going down soon. Physical therapy has already drastically decreased, going from every day to three days a week. 

“I’m okay,” he says. 

Louis nods, and then they sit in silence. Louis stares at the clouds, and Harry stares at Louis. 

-

Four days later, Harry takes a picture of Louis napping on the couch with Bruce, his head resting on Harry’s thigh, and he impulsively decides he’s going to tweet it. He downloads the app, logs in, ignores the tweets on his timeline, and just posts the picture with the suicide hotline number as the only caption. That takes care of two of Louis’ worries; Harry confirmed they’re an item, and their management got that tweet they wanted from him. 

He regrets it about three minutes later, when Louis’ phone starts ringing, waking him from his nap. Harry sinks into the couch as Louis goes from answering the phone tiredly to looking confusedly at Harry. And when Harry can’t shrink against the couch anymore and Louis starts snapping at whoever he’s talking to, Harry tries shrinking in on himself, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. 

“It’s his fucking life,” Louis snaps. “And his relationship, and his Twitter account. He can do whatever the fuck he wants. None of this has anything to do with PR, and it never has. I don’t -- no, don’t interrupt me, I don’t care what your guys’ plan was. He did what he did because he wanted to do it, and that’s all that really matters.” He pauses, rolls his eyes, and then says, “Okay, well, I’m hanging up now, so.”

And then Louis’ looking at him, a mix of sleepy and surprised. He leans back against Harry, pillowing his head against Harry’s hip now. “Could do with a warning next time,” he says, eyes slipping shut. “Or not. Like I said, it’s your life. ‘S not up to me.”

Harry slowly puts his legs back down, and when Louis readjusts, he puts his hand on top of his head, petting Louis’ hair. “No, you’re right. I get it. Sorry.”

“You picked a flattering photo of me,” Louis says. “That’s all I really care about. No reason to be sorry.”

Despite everything, Harry smiles. 

-

Harry doesn’t bother going upstairs until two and a half months of being home, and Louis is out grabbing a few things from the store. He doesn’t plan it, or anything. It’s not like it’s this big, sneaky scheme he’s trying to pull off under Louis’ nose. He just goes to the bathroom, the walker now being replaced with a cane (he uses the walker more than the cane still, but he’s been trying to get used to the cane, which is plain black and sleek) and he passes the staircase and thinks _huh_. 

He knows the upstairs bathroom is where he tried to kill himself, and he idly wonders if it was hard transporting his body on a stretcher down the stairs. He’s not exactly sure why he wants to see the bathroom; logically, he knows any evidence will have been erased already. Any blood, any. . . anything else, it’s gone. But a part of him wants to make sure, for some reason, so he goes pee, puts the dogs outside so they don’t trip him while he tries making his way to the stairs, and walks to the staircase. 

It feels so bizarre, standing in most likely the very place he did that night. Maybe he stood right here, looking up the stairs as he is now, and wondered if he’s about to make the right decision. And as Harry makes his way up, one stair at a time, he wonders why he thought he was. He desperately wants to know what drove him to do it, even though he’s sure he’ll never find out. 

When he reaches the top of the stairs feeling a little breathless and sore, he stops again. Maybe he stopped then, too. Maybe he thought _well, I’ve already made it this far. No point in going back now._

The bathroom door is shut. The door is also new; it’s white, same as the last, but it’s brighter and the door knob is clear while the previous one was brown. It confuses him before he realizes they probably had to break down the door. 

Cautiously, he walks to the door. He has to brace himself before opening the door, suddenly so sure that there’s going to be a bloody mess inside, and when he pushes the door open, it doesn’t budge. Confused, he tries again. And then he realizes that the door no longer pushes open, but pulls open, so he pulls, and -- 

\-- and there’s a washer and dryer, stacked up on each other. Harry blinks at it for a second, feeling stunned and confused and unsatisfied. The tile on the floor is different from the one of the bathroom, and a wall is right behind the machines. It’s a closet now, and Harry stands there for a long time trying to figure out if it’s always been like this and his memory is going screwy, or if Louis changed it. 

After moving as fast and as frantically as he can to open every other door upstairs, he finds that no, that was most certainly the bathroom before. They have a bathroom on every floor in this house, and their home in LA has two on the main floor, so no, Harry’s not losing his mind. Not again. What once was the bathroom he shot himself in is now a closet that stores the washer and dryer. 

He feels disconnected from himself as he walks back down the stairs, something he didn’t do on the tenth of August. He lets the dogs in and drags himself to bed. For no good reason, he feels shaken up, so he slips earbuds in and plays some music and tries to sleep. 

He wakes forty-five minutes later to Louis rubbing his shoulder. Harry opens his eyes, feeling disoriented as he processes music in his ears, and he takes his earbuds out before turning on his side to look at Louis, who’s smiling sadly down at him. 

“Did you go exploring upstairs, or do we have an intruder in here that was polite enough to spare you?” he asks, looking very well like he already knows the answer. 

Harry shrugs. “Was just curious.”

“Well, it is your house,” Louis says, leaning back against the pillows, stretching out next to Harry. He keeps his hand firm on Harry’s bicep. “It’s fine, I’m not saying anything bad, or anything, just. . . were you looking after anything in particular?”

Harry shugs again. “Just wanted to see.” He turns towards Louis, tucking his face against his shoulder and placing his hand on his chest. Immediately, Louis pulls the covers over his shoulder and wraps his arm around him, keeping him close. 

“Do you want to hear about what happened that day, or are you still not ready? It’s okay either way.”

Inhaling sharply, Harry nods. 

Louis begins. 

“I could tell something was off,” he says. “For a while, I just. . . I don’t know how, or what tipped me off because you were still acting so normal, but I could feel it in my gut. Something wasn’t right with you. I didn’t think it was anything serious. . . not even for a minute. I just thought. . . I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought. But I didn’t think it was anything to worry about.” He takes a deep breath. “And then you told me you were going to London, and I _knew_ it was weird. I _knew_ it, down to my core, that it was weird. You’d been so clingy lately, and then all the sudden you wanted to go to London? I didn’t think you were lying to me necessarily. I thought there was a writing session. But I didn’t think it was _just_ a writing session. And then that morning when you were going to leave, you. . . you were so distant. So closed off. Usually you can’t even stand going to your mum’s without me, but then, you just -- I don’t know.”

There’s a pause, and Harry clenches his eyes shut.

“I thought you were okay, though,” Louis says, sounding more choked up. “I thought -- I thought that you were fine. I wouldn’t have let you go if I had even the tiniest bit of an idea that you were suicidal, but you didn’t seem to be. You seemed different, yeah, but not. . . not _that_ different. And after the flight, you were texting me fine, you seemed completely normal, and I don’t -- I still didn’t think anything bad was going to happen. I had no reason to. But from the second you started talking to me the night of the tenth, I felt so sure that something was wrong. I would’ve bet my life on it. And before you even said anything that really got me worried, I had already texted Ben, asking him to check on you. He didn’t want to at first, said that he and Meri were getting ready for a date, but I made him. I begged him to and he did. And when you -- you apologized to me, I don’t know if you remember that. You said that you were sorry and you loved me and that you had to go. You kept saying you were tired. And I tried so hard to get you to stay on the line, and I was pacing our house like a crazy person, getting the dogs all worked up. . .When you hung up on me, I knew you were going to do something stupid. I knew you were going to try something. And when you wouldn’t answer my calls, I knew it even more, and -- and God, Harry, I was a fucking _wreck._ I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and I kept trying to call you, over and over and over again, and then,” he stops, collects his breath, and starts again. 

“And then you answered your phone,” he says, and lets out a tight laugh. “And I was so _relieved_ , I was so fucking _happy_ , and then it wasn’t you, it was Ben, and he -- God, he said, “Fuck, Louis, he shot himself, he shot himself in the head. Louis, he’s dead, I was too late, I’m so sorry.” Because by the time he got around to ringing me, it was while you were in the ambulance and he had just gotten done hearing them say your heart had stopped. And for the longest half hour of our bloody lives, we both thought you were dead. We thought -- God, it was awful. It was so awful.”

Harry’s trembling now, picturing Louis having to hear that he’s dead, having to hear it from Ben, who had just seen what he thought was Harry’s dead body. . . That alone is enough to break Harry’s heart, and then to think that Louis had to go through three months of sitting next to a comatose Harry, and then months and months after that nursing him back to health -- Harry will never, ever be able to apologize enough. Nothing he can do could even come close to healing that wound. 

“I got to the hospital the next day, and they really thought you weren't going to make it,” Louis continues. He sounds so frail. “They actually told me that. I asked them to be honest, and the surgeon said he would be shocked to see you recover. More or less, he said even you being even brain dead would be a miracle. But you didn’t die. I sat there in ICU with you for two whole weeks, and you were _okay_. I mean, severely, severely broken, but okay. I thought -- I was hopeful. I really, really was. And then all the sudden you suffered a brain hemorrhage, and -- ”

Harry presses against him. “What’s that?” he asks, and his voice is tiny and weak. 

“A brain bleed,” Louis says, petting his hip. “And you were already so weak,” he whispers. “So, so weak. I remember seeing the _fear_ on the surgeons’ face as they took you away. None of them for a second thought you would be able to be pull through, and neither did I, because fucking hell, what are the odds of that, Haz? You were already so frail, and then your brain decided to fucking explode, I didn’t -- I didn’t think there was even a _chance_ that I was ever going to see you again. . . and Niall was with me by then. I don’t know why, but he’s the only one I wanted to see. He’s the first one I called after things settled down on the tenth, too. I don’t know why. He was the one to call your mum. I couldn’t do it. Neither could Ben.”

He takes another long inhale -- and God, this must be so stressful for him to relive through, but Harry _needs_ to hear it -- before exhaling and continuing. 

“And Niall. . . Niall, shit, he was a fucking mess, but he still tried so hard to comfort me. So hard. He did everything he could think of. He was running back and forth between me and your mum and sister, trying to keep us all from falling apart. And every time someone in scrubs walked by, we thought they were going to be the one to tell us that you had died. That they did everything they could, and there was just too much damage, and they were so sorry for our loss. . . When one of your surgeons came over to us -- and God, it had been _hours_ since they took you in for surgery at that point -- when he came over to us, we all burst into tears and I swear he was crying a bit, too, and then he said that you were alive. And we all -- it was _insane_ , Harry. It was fucking crazy to hear. You were _alive,_ after _all_ of that? How? How is that possible? I still don’t know. But you were. They said that you were hanging on the tiniest of threads, but you were still hanging on.”

He sighs. “So they put you in a medically induced coma. Said it was only supposed to last two weeks or so. And then it lasted a lot longer than it was meant to. It wasn’t a mistake on their part -- you better believe I made sure of it -- you just. . . wouldn’t wake up. And I started to truly believe again that you were going to die on me. After the third week you wouldn’t wake up, me and your mum decided it would be best to let everyone come and say goodbye. So many people came, Harry. So many. Everyone from America flew over just to spend a few minutes with you. It was so hard to see everyone so upset. . . I remember -- I remember Perrie telling me that you were going to pull through. She said that you wouldn’t leave me like that. And I told her that that was a stupid fucking thing to say, considering that was your whole motive, and she kept telling me no, you weren’t leaving. You weren’t going to leave me like that. She promised me that, Harry, and I remember every single day I’d wake up and think it’d be the day that I’d have to call her up and chew her out for breaking her promise, and I never had to. ‘Cause you never did actually leave me. And I swear to God, her promising me that kept me sane. Not because I thought it was true, but because I thought it was so _untrue_ , and it made me so angry that it gave me something else to focus on. The amount of awful, cruel things I thought about poor Perrie those few weeks were terrible, but they kept me going.

“Two days after I got the bathroom sealed off and turned into a closet is when you woke up,” Louis tells him. “I swear, when I got in the hospital to hear some new nurse talking about you following her with your eyes, I was -- God, after the relief and fear and shock set in, the first coherent thought I processed was, _shit, he must’ve not liked what I’ve done with the place._ Which was stupid. _Is_ stupid. I don’t believe in that sort of stuff, but it made me laugh, and I hadn’t laughed in so long. It felt nice.”

It goes quiet, then. It makes sense -- the story is done, isn’t it. Harry was there for the rest. But after a minute or two, Louis continues. 

“Let’s see. . . ” he says. “Not that much happened while you were out. That I find noteworthy, anyway. Zayn blew up on Twitter so many times that our team sent an email to Twitter -- like, _Twitter,_ their headquarters or something -- trying to get his account suspended. Was kind of funny. . . Social media went out their yearly kick about how shitty tabloids are, and ‘oh, make sure to check on your friends’ and ‘oh, maybe we should stop treating celebrities like shit’. . . that didn’t last very long. Never does, does it. But I swear to God, Harry, I think you made people open their eyes. Like, yes, everyone moved on after a while, but people were actually reflecting on themselves and our society and so much other melodramatic shit, it was. . . refreshing, kind of. I spent so much time on Twitter, even though everyone was telling me it was a bad idea. And it was, it made me feel worse, but. Also a little bit better. I remember thinking that it’s what you would want. That if it had to happen, you would want people to learn something from it. Learn to be a bit kinder to people. And that made me feel a little more okay.”

Harry’s whole system is in overdrive, trying to take everything in at once while also trying to block it all out, so he doesn’t know how he manages to collect himself long enough to say, “What -- the note. What did the note say?”

“Oh,” Louis says. “Um. I can show it to you, if you want. It’s upstairs, in our room. That’s what I thought you were looking for.”

“Later,” Harry pleads, although he’s positive he’s never going to read that note for himself. He doesn’t want to. “Just tell me.”

“Lots of stuff, I guess. You kept saying it’s all that you could think about and you wished there was a way not to hurt us and that you didn’t want to hurt anyone. You kept saying that it was time. And you said it was simple, but then you said it wasn’t, you. . . It was confusing, if I’m honest. I remember reading it and thinking that it didn’t sound anything like you. And you wrote down a bunch of your passwords and stuff, and your lawyers and how you wanted to be buried and all that. . . For something that was very clearly planned, your note didn’t seem like it had any thought process around it. It looks and sounds like your brain kind of just threw up on the paper. And reading that, seeing that, made me accept for the first time that maybe you weren’t doing well and I just missed it. Because someone who could write something so jumbled as that -- clearly they weren’t well.”

Louis lets out a sad sound that’s supposed to be a laugh. “And what confused me, and still does, is that you packed for an entire week. I thought you did it just so I wouldn’t notice, but I don’t think that’s why you did it. I mean, you packed things that I wouldn’t have thought odd if you didn’t take with you, like deodorant and the book you were reading and nail polish and your lucky ring. I don’t. . . you bought a return ticket. You had a planner with you that had plans filled in far past August tenth. It’s just so weird. I never unpacked your bag, either. It’s upstairs, too. If you want to look at that, too.”

“Okay,” Harry whispers. He’s never going to look through that, either. He doesn’t have a reason why not, it’s just. . . no. He doesn’t want to. 

“And you want to know another weird thing?” Louis asks. He sounds absolutely confused. “You slept on the couch. You didn’t sleep in our bed, you slept on the couch. And I thought maybe it was because you felt bad, but then why wouldn’t you sleep in the guest room? I didn’t get it. I asked the doctors to run a toxicology report on you, I thought there was no way you were sober, and you came back completely clean. I wish I could just understand what was going through your head.”

Harry almost laughs at that. He doesn’t, because his chest is tight and his head is spinning and he’s crying, at least he's pretty sure he is, it’s hard to tell with the way he’s pressed against Louis. But if it weren’t for any of that, he’d laugh, because goddammit, Harry would like to know what was going through his head, too. More than anything. 

Last week, Claire insinuated that Harry maybe does remember some things. That he’s in denial, or he’s scared that someone will get mad at him if he admits to how he was feeling. _Maybe you weren’t happy in your relationship,_ she said, which Harry immediately scoffed at and told her that although he understands she’s just doing her job, she doesn’t need to be insulting. 

“If I could remember,” he said, “I would tell you. Knowing why I did it would make me a lot less stressed about going down the same path unknowingly.”

“Are you okay?” Louis asks, squeezing his hip. It makes Harry jump slightly; part of him wants to be alone, doesn’t want to be touched, and the other part of him is perfectly content staying right here. Either way, Louis probably wouldn’t let him be alone after hearing all that, anyway. 

“It’s just a lot,” Harry says, voice still small. That’s all he wants to say right now. All he wants to think, too. He’s desperately trying to cram everything Louis just told him into a corner of his mind to deal with later. Some things he can wipe from his mind, but others -- Ben telling Louis he’s dead, Niall comforting Louis, all his friends saying goodbye to him -- are harder to scrub away. He can’t think about that all right now, he _can’t_ , so he’s going to try his very hardest not to. 

“I know,” Louis says. “Take as long as you need. We’ve got all day, love.”

If Harry had any ounce of energy to do so, he’d ask, _Why are you being so nice to me?_ How is that, after remembering every last bit of pain that Harry put him through, he wants to be even in the same room as him, let alone in the same bed, holding and coddling him and comforting over something _he_ caused? Louis is too forgiving, Harry’s pretty sure. Because Harry did just about the most unforgivable thing in the whole world. 

And if the tables were turned, of course Harry would love Louis just as hard. But he couldn’t ever be selfless enough to trust Louis again, or believe it completely when he said that it was okay and that he forgave him. He doesn’t think he could do that. 

He’s clearly a weak person. _Clearly_. He couldn’t handle about half of what Louis does. 

-

The next few days are incredibly difficult. 

He’s motivation is shot, he feels anxious all the time, he gets teary-eyed easily, and his self-esteem or self-worth or self-image or whatever the fuck you want to call it is absolutely diminished. It’s hard to understand why Louis telling him everything triggered him like this -- he _knew_ all of that, give or take, even if he didn’t know the specifics. But he gets worked up about it anyway, getting startlingly angry at himself when he catches sight of the scar in a mirror or struggles to walk properly or finds himself feeling tired even after he’s had a good night’s sleep and a nap. He doesn’t get to be tired or sad or angry -- _he did this to himself._

Essentially, he goes through what he did after Claire first told him he tried to commit suicide. Except this time, it lasts for a much shorter time and it isn’t as severe. Maybe that means he’s getting better, he doesn’t really know. All he knows is that he wouldn’t have to “get better” if he didn’t hurt himself in the first place. 

Louis stays patient with him, just like always. Calm and patient and gentle. When Harry bursts into tears for no good reason as they watch TV one night, Louis sets down his tea and wraps him up and tells him that everything’s okay. He doesn’t get mad, doesn’t tell him to relax -- none of that. He just holds him. And Harry doesn’t know why he’s surprised, considering that’s what he’s been doing all along and there’s been no indication that it’d change now, but he is. 

FIve days after Louis told him everything, Harry wakes up from where he fell asleep on the couch to Louis talking to someone on the phone in the kitchen. “I don’t know,” he says. “He’s been having a rough few days. I’m not sure if he’s going to be up for any visitors. I can ask him, but -- yeah, that’s fine. I can let you know what a better day is. . . no, he’s just a little down. He’s alright. No, Alexa, you don’t have to worry. It’s not like that, promise.”

He’s not even that close with Alexa, so doesn’t know why something tugs at him sharply thinking _no,_ no, _I want to see her._ Maybe he’s more lonely than he lets himself believe, maybe he’s not so content staying home all the time, because he gets up a little too quickly, teetering a bit on his feet as he takes a step forward with his cane. He pauses, fixes his hold on it, and gets to the kitchen. Louis glances at him as he gets in, his voice dropping immediately. 

Harry leans against the doorway. “She can come over,” he says, and God, his voice doesn’t have a right to sound so sad. “She can come. I don’t mind.” He hopes he doesn’t sound desperate, but he very clearly does based on Louis’ soft expression. 

“Okay,” he says. And then, “Hey, Lex, he actually said he’s up for a visit. . yeah, that’s fine. We don’t have any plans for tonight.” He laughs and rolls his eyes. “No, we’re not letting you stay for dinner. We’re far too poor to afford that, you’re right. . . okay, yeah, that’s fine. Sounds good. See you then.”

A sigh of relief floods through him, and he feels better than he has in days. 

-

Alexa is the first person to seem completely, one-hundred percent normal around Harry. She doesn’t seem nervous or cautious, and she doesn’t dwell on the fact that she hasn’t seen him in a while. She wraps him up in a hug, presses a wet kiss to his cheek, and hands him a present. It’s a robe, a bloody Gucci one, and Harry rolls his eyes at her, saying she didn’t have to get him that. 

“Oh, please,” she says, waving her hand. “Saw a picture of that God-awful purple one Louis got you and figured that someone like you shouldn’t be caught dead in something like that.”

Anybody else would have halted after accidentally using that figure of speech. Even Louis eyes Harry uneasily. Alexa just walks to the kitchen and tells Louis to make her some tea. 

They talk for a little while at the breakfast bar. She has a way of telling stories that don’t make Harry feel like he even missed out on them at all. It feels like he was right there with her. And after she finishes her tea, she demands that Harry lead her to his nail polish stash so she can fix up his nails. Apparently, they look atrocious. 

“It’s upstairs,” Louis says. 

Harry makes a disgruntled noise. “I’m not in the mood to do stairs today.”

Alexa slides off the bar stool and kisses the top of his head. “Oi, okay, you lazy bum. Louis will be useful and show me to them, then.” She follows Louis out of the room, Clifford following while Bruce stays with Harry. 

When she returns, she’s holding a bottle of red polish and insists that they go outside. He doesn’t mind that, not at all, so he gets up and follows her out the door. Louis doesn’t follow, which is okay. He probably wants to give Harry some privacy, even though he doesn’t need any. There’s not been a second throughout this entire thing that he’s gotten sick of Louis being around all the time. 

“I ought to start with those awful feet of yours,” she says once they’re sat on the bench, motioning for his foot. He adjusts so his right foot is flat in front of her. 

“I showered this morning, thank you very much.”

She scoffs as she rolls his pant leg up. “Sure doesn’t look like it.”

As she starts painting his toenails, he leans back and exhales deeply. He feels the best he has in a long time -- and not just because the last few days have been shit. Alexa isn’t treating him any bit differently, and it feels bloody amazing. 

“You better not be falling asleep on me,” she says after she’s finished with three of his nails. “I’m not your pedicurist.”

“Sorry.”

She gives him a soft smile. “It’s okay. I’m just joking.” After she’s finished with his right foot, she grabs his left and starts working on it. She clears her throat before saying, “Will you hate me if I turn a bit serious on you? And, please, forewarn me, ‘cause my face is within kicking distance.”

Although he’s kind of bummed they can’t skip this bit, he understands why. So he nods and says, “Not gonna kick you, go ahead.”

“Well, to start, I think it should be noted that I bloody adore you, Harry,” she tells him. “You’re the most genuine person I’ve ever met in my entire life, even with you being so young still. And after I found out -- which, by the way, I don’t know if you’ve been told, but TMZ broke the story that night. So many of your friends found out that way. Thank God your mum and Louis and everyone super close to you found out first, but. . . yeah, it sucked. Anyway. A few days after I found out, I got together with some friends. Pixie, Nick, a few others. And we got to talking about you right away, and I just -- you’re really loved, you know. I hope you didn’t do it because you felt unloved.”

Harry’s throat feels tight, so all he does is shake his head. 

“And Nick was really mad,” she continues. “He felt like everyone closer to you were idiots, because _surely_ you’d been acting differently if you were going through something. And after a while, we came to the conclusion that you’re not really the type to bother others with your problems. You’d much rather help everyone else with all their problems. And I think a lot of us took advantage of that, to an extent. So Harry, love, I’ve got to ask you to try and stop being that person. Stop taking care of everyone else before yourself.”

He clears his throat and resists the urge to nervously shift around. He doesn’t want to mess up the polish. “I’m taking care of myself. I’m honest with Louis and my therapist. I tell them when something’s the matter.”

“And that’s good,” she says, “but how long is that going to last? I don’t want you slipping back into old habits, is all. Once you get back to your career and going out and everything. . . it’s going to be different. Harder. I guess what I’m trying to say is, don’t let yourself stop being on top of your mental health once you're physically healthy. Don’t put it on the backburner.”

“I’ll try not to,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Promise.”

-

Alexa ends up staying the night after accidentally having one too many drinks with Louis. Louis’ good with his liquor, so he isn’t knocked back too much. Harry doesn’t have any. He’d rather watch than participate. When she leaves the following morning, she ends up taking some of Harry’s good mood with her, although he is undeniably in better spirits than he was before. He talks about it with Claire, and she suggests that he start inviting more people over. She tells him to aim for one person a week, and he tries to stick to it. 

The first week it’s inviting Ben and Meri over for dinner. The next it’s having Jeff and Glenne over for lunch. Next it’s Nick dropping by for tea and a puppy play-date. Harry doesn’t get up the entire time during it, far too scared to be knocked over by one of the dogs. And that same week, Kendall is in London so she comes by and spends the whole day with him. He tries to ignore how obviously hurt she is; he asks her quietly how she found out, thinking about what Alexa said, and she scoffs loudly and says she was scrolling through Twitter before she had some big meeting and her people wouldn’t let her take the time to figure out any more details. Harry feels like a complete dickhead, even though he had no way of knowing that the press would sink their claws into it so quickly. 

After Kendall, he starts getting more comfortable. People are in and out of their house more than just once a week. Liam and Niall and Zayn come by at least twice a week after a while, and Zayn slowly becomes less and less tense around him. Perrie, Jade, Leigh-Anne and Jesy all come by, too. Their house is a revolving door for celebrities, basically, and it’s so, so _nice_. 

So he decides to push it. He gets an invite to go around to Nick’s for a small get together, less than fifteen people, and he decides to go. With Louis, of course, and they stay seated in the quieter corner of the living room the entire night. He would feel up to talk more, if it wasn’t for the way he can feel everyone’s nervous energy around him. Not in a bad way, not at all, but he doesn’t want to be the center of attraction when it’s Nick’s thing. 

The night goes over smoothly, and it’s the kick-start for Harry getting back into the real world. He starts going over to his friend’s houses and he stops turning down invites to things that don’t sound too bad. And when he starts hanging around the same people enough for the obligatory mention of what happened last year to stop being obligatory, it’s even nicer, and Harry’s fucking thriving. 

Until he’s not. Until he gets a little burned out, and he hits a bit of an emotional wall where everything sounds so daunting and scary again. And it’s not this big, scary thing, it isn’t; he just takes a step back and stops wearing himself too thin and starts listening to Louis, who’s been telling him this entire time that maybe he shouldn’t be going out so much just yet. When he gets back to feeling okay enough to hang out with people, he finds a healthy balance between going out and staying in and it’s perfect. Harry feels wonderful, completely untouched from everything, and he never thought he’d get here ever again. 

-

Their team becomes harder and harder to ignore. When Harry starts being caught in pictures, willingly and accidentally, that his friends post on Instagram, their management gets irritated. _He can go out and party but not give us_ one _interview?_ As if Harry’s going out every night to pubs and shit; no, the largest event he’s gone to is about twenty people who went to Niall’s to watch a golfing match. It’s bullshit, and Louis and Harry ignore it until they kind of can’t anymore. 

Eventually, a date is set for an official band meeting with their label. Louis tries to get them out of it, or at the very least get permission for Harry to be excluded from it, but he can’t. The only thing he manages to do is get the meeting moved from Los Angeles to London. 

So, on the eighteenth of November, Louis drives them to a posh building with glass windows and high ceilings. He helps Harry, who uses a cane publicly like this for the time, to the door. Once they get in, Louis doesn’t bother trying to figure out where the right room is on their own, so he asks the desk person, and she says it’s the second door to the left on the ninth floor. 

“Right, because there wasn’t a room on the first floor we could have used,” he says, sighing, before thanking the lady. 

“We have wheelchairs. . . ” she says hesitantly, and immediately, Harry snaps, “ _No._ ”

“We’ll be fine, but thank you,” Louis tells her before grabbing Harry’s wrist and motioning for them to go. It’s not a big deal, Harry can take standing far longer than a few minutes in an elevator. He does, however, think it was maybe intentional, putting the meeting up so high. He doesn’t know what message it's supposed to send, but he receives it regardless. 

Louis gives him a small pep-talk on the way up. Harry hasn’t admitted to feeling nervous out loud, but he’s been undeniably irritable and quiet all morning. He’s trying not to be, tries to tell him himself that it’s going to be fine even if the meeting goes poorly. It’s still intimidating, though. These types of meetings always have been. 

Louis tells him that if he doesn’t like a question, then he shouldn’t even bother answering it. Don’t try to make them comfortable, that’s not important. Don’t just tell them what they want to hear. Louis says he needs to stick up for himself as much as he can, that he can’t say yes to everything they ask of him. Harry only nods, keeping his hold on Louis’ hand tight. 

They’re the last ones to show up, and the conversation going on between Niall and Liam quiets down why they walk in. Zayn’s not here, although that’s not surprising. He’s not part of the band anymore, is he. Being here would just be putting him through unnecessary torture. 

“Hello,” Simon says, casual as ever, and God, Harry doesn’t have a right to feel so defensive yet. 

_Yet._ He knows there’s going to be a time in this meeting that he’s going to have every right to feel defensive 

Louis must feel it, too, because he pulls out a chair for Harry, sits down himself, and says, “Next time we have another one of these meetings, it might do you well to keep in mind that we still have a key player of this team still has days where he can’t stand for long periods of time.”

Simon and the rest of the people in business wear keep their cool. It’s Simon, a few people who Harry vaguely recalls are on their legal team, and two others he doesn’t recognize. It’s a big crew for a meeting that’s supposed to just be about checking-in.

“We’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Simon says. And then nobody says anything for a solid minute. Finally, he sighs and says, “I want you all to be very honest with me about what you want the future of your career in this band to look like.”

Nobody says anything. They all look to Harry, except Louis, who continues looking at the center of the table. 

Again, there’s a minute of silence. Again, Simon’s the one to break it. 

“Well, Harry?” he asks. “It seems as though the decision is yours.”

It’s a lot of pressure to put on him alone, although he understands. He is the one who caused this unplanned break in the first place, it makes sense that they’re all waiting for him to make the next call, too. 

“I. . . ” he pauses, unsure. Louis squeezes his hand discreetly under the table. “I’m not ready to do anything yet.”

Simon doesn’t look surprised. “And by ‘anything’ you mean. . . ”

“With the band, music, interviews. I’m not ready.”

“And when will you be ready? It’s been over a year.”

“ _Barely_ ,” Louis snaps, glaring at Simon. 

Simon still doesn’t flinch. 

“I don’t know,” Harry admits quietly. He’s struggling to look anyone in the eye. “Not for a while, I don’t think.”

Simon sighs and scratches the space between his eyebrows. “And you two?” he asks, motioning carelessly to Niall and Liam. “Are you two going to continue going behind my back and trying to get contracts in order for a solo deal?”

Niall scoffs quietly, but he doesn’t defend himself. Liam tries. “I never went behind your back,” he says. “I told you, up front, that I was thinking about it.”

And because Harry can’t help himself, can’t hide the hurt he feels in his gut that doesn’t really deserve to be there, he says, “You never told me.”

“All we’ve done is had a few meetings about it,” Niall says, looking sorry. “Both of us will choose the band over any side projects any day. If you say today that you want to start back up the band in a bit, me and Liam will forget any solo shit. If you say you’re not sure you’ll ever be ready again, I don’t think it’s fair to ask us to wait without doing anything.”

Harry slides his hand out of Louis’ hold so he can anxiously fumble with his own fingers under the table. Louis sets a firm hand on Harry’s thigh. “Okay,” he says, still sounding meek. 

“We’ll drop everything the minute you say you’re ready,” Liam tells him. “The very second, Haz. And if that time never comes, well. . . I think that’s okay, too.”

“Is that really how you boys want to leave it?” Simon asks, and now he sounds a little pissed. “We’ve always planned on ending it with a bang instead of a whimper.”

One of the blokes Harry doesn’t recognize laughs quietly and mumbles, “It _was_ a bang, to be fair.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Harry finds himself snapping. “Yeah, I shot myself in the head, so fucking funny. Who the fuck even are you?”

Simon rubs a hand over his face. “Daniel, you can leave.”

“Yes, Daniel, please do,” Louis says, glaring, his grip almost painfully tight on Harry’s thigh. Daniel collects his things and leaves, a dark blush on his cheeks. He’s probably around Harry’s age, so maybe he’s too young to know better but -- Harry knows better than to say something as insensitive as that. To joke about a stranger’s suicde attempt. God. 

Once he’s gone, Simon asks, “So does anyone else want to answer my question?”

“I think we’d rather the band end with all of us alive,” Liam says, tone icy. Nobody wants to be here. Not a single person. There was no point to this. 

“And if I were to point out that you promised us one more tour under your contract?” Simon asks, and he sounds bored, like he wouldn’t actually enforce that. Louis narrows his eyes at him. 

“Then I would tell you that we’d sue you since it’s not right to keep a mentally ill person under a contract he signed when he was sixteen,” Louis says angrily. “And no, it probably wouldn’t stick out in court, but we all have the money to waste and by the time a judge ruled against us the media would already be reporting that you’re trying to force a client who recently attempted suicide to -- ”

“Okay,” Simon interrupts calmly, raising his hand. “I wouldn’t have expected a different answer.” He’s staring at Harry, now, gaze sharp. Intense. “This is it, then.”

“We had a good run,” Louis says. 

“This doesn’t mean it’s over for good,” Niall says. 

Simon’s gaze doesn’t waver. “We’ll get the paperwork sorted. Draft an official statement. It’ll probably be a bad look on you, announcing the end of the band before explaining yourself. There’s going to be people angry with you.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” Harry disagrees. “They already know what happened. If they blame me, that’s okay.”

“Okay,” Simon says, standing up. He still won’t drop his gaze from Harry. It’s punishing, angry. Saying all the things he’d say if Louis wasn’t in the room, waiting to pounce. He doesn’t drop his eyeline until he’s at the door with his back turned to them. Harry, thinking this meeting is over, lets out a silent sigh of relief. And then Simon turns back to them, every so slightly, and says, “I didn’t think any of you could have disappointed me more than Zayn did. I guess you proved me incredibly wrong, Harry.” And _then_ he leaves, taking away Harry’s small moment of relief with him. 

When the door closes, they all turn to look at him and Harry immediately stands. Tries to, but his knee gives so he has to clutch onto the back of the chair to balance himself. It’s not anything too dramatic, but it makes them all even more wary anyway. Grip tight on the chair, chest heaving slightly, head whirling viciously, Harry asks Louis if they can go now. 

“Maybe we should talk,” Liam says. Harry closes his eyes and tightens his jaw. He doesn’t want to fucking talk. There’s nothing to talk about, anyway. What is there to say? That it’s been over a year and Harry is still finding things he’s managed to destroy? It’s pointless, all of it. There’s nothing to say. 

Part of him is screaming that this is just how it was meant to be. That, surely, if Liam and Niall managed to find the desire to go solo while Harry was in a hospital, then the band was going to fall apart inevitably. Maybe it’s okay it ended with Harry being the one to take the blow -- literally and figuratively. God, that’s not funny. But it’s true. Maybe they’re secretly relieved that he was the one to lead to the natural end. Maybe if it didn’t end like this, they would have shattered. Like this, Harry is the only one who doesn’t leave unscathed. 

He’s not mad at them, but he is hurt and it’s got him questioning everything. 

“Sweetheart,” Louis says quietly, standing up behind him. Gently, he lays his hand on top of Harry’s. “It’s up to you. If you want to leave, then we’ll go.”

Harry reaches for his cane as a response, and then they leave.

Six hours later, they’re eating dinner and Harry’s barely spoken since they left that room. It’s not like he’s doing it on purpose, it’s just -- there’s nothing to say. About anything. And he knows, he _knows_ , it’s probably scaring Louis, which is something he usually tries to avoid at all costs, but. He doesn’t have it in him right now. 

“Do you think you’re going to call your mum tonight? Like usual?” Louis asks him, a clear attempt at trying to gauge where his head is at. Harry shakes his head. 

“I’ll just talk to her tomorrow, I think.”

Louis frowns. “H.”

Harry shrugs, not looking up from his plate. He’s over all this right about now. Calling his mum every night, fearing that if he falls asleep before he does that she’ll think he’s dead; feeling guilty for accepting Louis’ love; trying so hard to be okay. And he knows it’s just a shit day, that it’ll pass and he’ll get over it, but right now he’s comfortable under this thick layer of bitterness. He welcomes the heat. 

-

In the morning, he gets over himself. He stops sulking so much. He doesn’t, however, stop being hurt. By Liam and Niall being able to think about their careers while he’s still injured (which is selfish and maybe unfair). By Simon being so hard on him. By having to be the one to call it quits. By doing it alone. That’s how it felt. Louis was in his corner, yes, but if that meeting had just been Harry and Simon one-on-one, it would have gone the same exact way. 

When he wakes up, it’s to a dull headache and Louis staring out their bedroom window. The drawer’s open and he’s shirtless, like he got distracted halfway picking out a shirt, and the sun makes Louis’ pale skin look more tan, more like its usual color. It does nothing to make him look any less tired or worn, though. The proof of that stays evident. It’s evident on Harry, too, though. Maybe even more. Harry forgets that sometimes. That just because he was the one who caused all this in the first place, that technically doesn’t mean it’s his fault. Or -- it does, of course it does, but he was in pain. Clearly. He was hurting. Obviously. And he’s still hurting now. There has to become a point where Harry is able to recognize that he isn’t the villain here. That he doesn’t deserve to be punished. 

“Lou,” Harry says, voice shot with sleep. He clears his throat as he sits up on his elbow. “Come back to bed?”

Louis jumps, startled, before turning to Harry with a soft smile. “Yeah, love. Let me go grab my tea from the kitchen first, okay?”

“Can you get me a ibuprofen, too? I have a headache.”

Louis’ expression falters. “Nothing too bad, though, right?”

“No, not all. I just don’t feel like dealing with it right now.”

Louis nods before leaving the room. It’s only about a minute before he’s coming back with a water bottle and his tea, the dogs on his heels. They must’ve been outside before. He gets settled into bed next to Harry and hands him his water and pill. Harry sits up to take it, and as soon as he’s swallowed, he lays back down under the warm covers. 

“Are you in a better mood today?” Louis asks. He sounds a little withdrawn, like maybe he’s not ready to hear if the answer is no. It must be so nerve-wracking, constantly worrying about Harry. Because it’s not like Harry showed the signs before he tried to do something permanent. He was completely normal. So Louis will never be able to be sure if Harry’s okay or not. 

Harry nods. “A bit, yeah. Sorry for being irritating yesterday.”

“You weren’t irritating,” Louis says, frowning at him. “No need to talk poorly about yourself for being human. Yesterday was stressful for all of us.”

Harry, feeling settled by that, scoots closer to Louis so he can rest his head on his hip. Louis sets his hand on his head and tells him he can go back to sleep if he wants, that it’s still a little early. Without meaning to, Harry does. 

-

He has his last physical therapy session on a Thursday. They’ve done all they can do for him, basically. What is left to heal will heal on its own. What won’t, won’t. They say that if he feels like he needs it in the future, they’d love to help him. The following day, he has his last routine doctor’s appointment with Dr. Eva. He won’t have to see her again until six months from now. 

“Is your right leg still giving you trouble?” she asks. 

Harry says, “Only sometimes. It’s still weaker, though.”

“And your headaches?”

“Gone, mostly.”

“And you’re still seeing your therapist?”

Harry nods. “We’re going down to once a week next now.”

“And how’s that been going for you?”

“Good.”

“That’s great,” she says. “Do you have any other concerns for me?”

Concerns that she can help with, no. Concerns in general, yes. As the weeks add up, he’s slowly realizing that he’ll go crazy if he says unemployed forever. That Louis’ eventually going to want to get back into music, somehow, someway. He told Harry he’d never go solo, but that might change. That means Louis will eventually be away from him for extended periods of time. And Harry can’t stay glued to him forever, either. They’ll have to learn to recreate some healthy boundaries. Louis still doesn’t trust him. Harry still loathes himself a bit for what he did. 

But again, Dr. Eva can’t help with any of that. He’s sure that if he mentioned any of it, she would try her best to give him some sort of peace of mind, but it wouldn’t work. Harry’s got to find the answers within himself and his relationship, and he can only do that with trial and error. There’s no easy way to do this. 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I think I’m all set.”

She smiles before sending him on his way with some forms. That’s over with, then. The less and less Harry is a patient, the more and more he doesn’t know what to do with his time anymore. 

-

-

Twenty months after he left the hospital for good, he gets on a plane for the first time. They’re going to settle down in Los Angeles again. It just makes sense. Or it did at one point and it’s what they’re used to now. 

Twenty-two months after, he goes to his first concert. Taylor invites them to a show, promising she can put them up in a private VIP box, and Harry decides to go because he’s been feeling poorly ever since they got back to California and he thinks it’ll help. It does, to an extent. He has a lot of fun, and he gets a little drunk, and they see her after the show and hang out for a bit. But the entire time she’s on stage, Harry’s thinking, _I’ve been on that stage before, and I’ll probably never be on it again. Taylor wouldn’t let herself give this all up. She wouldn’t paint a large, barely-faded scar on her forehead and cause herself to walk with a cane way longer than anybody thought she’d need to. So what does that make me?_

Two years after, he gets placed on antidepressants, and he loathes it. It’s like Claire’s giving up on him, or something. Because she and Louis have both noticed he’s been slipping a little, not so bright or hopeful, but neither of them have really done anything about it. Not like this, anyway. She tells him that the pills will help, and they’re just a temporary measure, and that it’s okay that he’s struggling. In Harry’s head, ‘struggling’ strictly means that he’s thinking of suicide again, which he’s is absolutely not, so he won’t admit to it. He’s a little down, yes. He’s not been feeling motivated or satisfied in a while, either, but that doesn’t mean he’s struggling. He’s doing just fine. 

But the pills help. It takes a while, and he has to switch prescriptions after the first ones make him so nauseous that some nights he can’t sleep, and he throws up every other day. The second prescription he’s given helps, though. They do. They make him gain a bit of weight, but he still kind of needed to, anyway, so it’s okay. He’s also pretty sure that Louis likes his body better like that, a little more filled out. He’d never say that, but he’s been a lot more grabby with him lately. What’s more important is that his head feels clearer and he doesn’t feel so agitated or defeated all the time. For a while, he thought that was an inevitable side-effect of coping with everything, but apparently not. Apparently it’s possible to feel not just okay, but good. 

After two years, he stops feeling the need to keep track of time so closely. It happened. He healed. He’s still healing. But that doesn’t mean that has to be the defining point in his life that he gauges his growth from. Tacking on _since I’ve been out of the hospital_ to everything makes his achievements feel less worthwhile, more trivial, so he stops with that mindset and starts taking everything one day at a time. 

The first interview he does is with Rolling Stone, and it’s with Louis. He talks candidly about everything; about the band, about his relationship with Louis, and, of course, his suicide attempt. Louis talks about what it feels like to have almost lost someone to suicide, and how houding the press are, and how precious life really is. Needless to say, Louis’ words are more eloquent than Harry’s. 

They got to a few red carpets together, once Harry’s without the cane, and Harry thought the idea was the stupidest thing he ever heard all the way up until he was standing with Louis, hand-in-hand. It’s the first time they’ve really had a chance to flaunt each other in a way that doesn’t feel superficial (although, really, what’s more superficial than a red carpet?). 

One thing leads to another, one meeting with Jeff leads to a meeting with music executives, one song leads to an entire album. It’s finished for an entire year before he decides to put it out, and after he does, he and Louis leave for Jamaica with only a flip phone because Harry can’t take hearing any criticism about the album. Or even love for it, to be honest. He doesn’t want to hear what other people want to say about it. 

When they get to California, three months after the album’s release, they get home to rave reviews and promotional offers left and right and every music awards show that’s planned for the next year wanting to book him. And it’s to Jeff telling him that he’d be stupid not to take advantage of it all by going out and planning a tour. 

Harry’s being confused at the mere suggestion that that’s a good idea. “I can’t go on tour again. I don’t think I’m built for that, Jeff.”

Jeff looks baffled. “You did it for five years.”

“And then I tried to kill myself.”

“We don’t know if that’s why you did it.”

Harry scoffs. “We don’t know that it’s not.”

Jeff gives him a disappointed look, like Harry’s being unreasonable. Like Harry being maybe a little paranoid is unnecessary, like there aren't potentially severe consequences. Harry’s so careful when it comes to mental health now. He doesn’t do things that he thinks might overwhelm him. And touring will most certainly do that. Even if it’s a small tour, even if Louis can be with him the entire time, even if there’s a chance he’ll have the time of his life -- it’s not worth it. Nothing is worth risking his life over, not again. 

And he feels firm about that, so he’s not sure how, in two month’s time, he ends up looking at a spreadsheet of what the entirety of next year will look like for him if he commits to a tour. He told Jeff no, he said he didn’t think he could do it, and Jeff went ahead and planned it anyway. And he could still walk away, of course, it’s not like Jeff told anybody he’d do anything for sure, but. . . but it’s tempting. Looking at everything, at all the cities -- Tokyo and Melbourne and New York -- he can’t help but want it. Of course he wants it. 

Louis tries to remain emotionless the entirety of their conversation about it. “It’s up to you,” he keeps saying, very clearly putting himself in a position where he’ll carry no responsibility for anything if something goes wrong. So he can live with himself if something were to happen. 

“But I want your opinion,” Harry says, and he’s holding onto Louis’ hands like he’s begging him for forgiveness. 

Louis shrugs a shoulder and glances off to the side, no longer looking at Harry. He’s trying his best to hide his emotions, which Harry hates. He hates that he feels like he has to do that now. “Doing seventy shows is a lot. It’s almost as much as we did on our last tour, and there were four of us.”

“What if I cut it down? What if -- what if I do, like, fifty? That’s not too bad, right?”

Louis closes his eyes briefly before looking at Harry again. He looks bloody terrified. “It’s up to you,” he says, shrugging again. 

“Thirty,” Harry amends. “Thirty shows to start. That’s barely anything, right? I’ll be able to do that no problem.”

“It’s up to you,” Louis repeats, punctuating every word. 

Harry, frustrated, squeezed Louis’ hands and says, “Just tell me what you’re thinking, love. I can take it. I know you still don’t trust me, and I completely understand why, but surely I’ve earned enough of your trust to hear the truth. Give me at least a bit of credit, please.”

He expects Louis to say it’s up to him again, or at the very least hold back a little. He doesn’t. “One show could be enough to hurt you,” Louis says, looking tense. “One show is all it will take for you to realize how different everything is and feels, and it could be enough to destroy you. It could be. And then you’d have to do it another twenty-nine times, night after night after night, and I’m not going to tell you what to do. I’m absolutely not going to do that. But you released an album and then fell off the side of the earth for three months because you were scared of how everyone was going to react, even if it was good. And now you think you can handle seeing what thousands and thousands of people think of you when they’re right in front of you? That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, babe.”

And he’s not even wrong. That’s the part that really hurts him. Because Louis’ right: Harry’s fragile. Still, after all this time, he hasn’t gathered much strength. He can’t handle rejection. Whenever something goes wrong, he gets defeated and frustrated quickly. And tours are stressful. Always are, always will be. He shouldn’t put himself under that much stress. 

He was prepared to hear that Louis didn’t want him to do it. He thought he was ready for it. And when Louis says it, Harry processes the words slowly, letting them sink in, and he’s okay, at first. He understands and agrees, to an extent. So he’s completely caught off guard when a sob explodes out of him and tears rush out of his eyes, when his chest gets tight with hurt and regret and pain. Louis immediately pulls him close, rubbing his back, and Harry cries into his neck and clings onto his shirt. 

If he didn’t do what he did, One Direction would probably be on their sixth or seventh tour right about now. And that thought makes him cry even harder, and Louis is crushing him now, telling him over and over that it’s okay, that just because it’s not the right time now doesn’t mean there won’t ever be a right time in the future.

Harry cries harder now then he has in a long time, and he doesn’t even know why. He realized a long time ago that he wouldn’t be able to jump back into his career. Maybe he hadn’t accepted it yet, but he _was_ aware of it. And he didn’t feel this terrible when One Direction essentially ended. That was something he actually had that he had to give up. A solo career -- he’s never had that, so why does it feel like he’s lost something astronomical? You can’t lose something you never had. Or can’t have. 

“I ruined _everything_ ,” he sobs out, and it hurts, like the words were physically ripped from his throat. “God, Louis, I ruined everything, I ruined -- I ruined _everything_. What was even the _point_ of getting better if I can’t even do anything, I can’t do _anything,_ Louis, I -- ” he cuts himself off with another sharp sob and he gives up on talking, then. 

“Harry, sweetheart,” Louis whispers. His head is pressed against Harry’s, and he’s holding him so tight. “You did not ruin everything. You still have so much, baby.”

“Like _what?_ ”

“ _Me,_ ” Louis snaps, fierce. “The dogs. The ability to fucking _walk,_ Harry. Money and houses and friends and a mum who adores you. You still have fans, if that’s what’s important to you. You have a platinum album. You have so fucking much, Harry, _how_ do you keep _forgetting_ that?”

Louis’ right. Again. And Harry, even as scrambled as is right now, recognizes that. It’s not enough to get him to stop crying, though. He cries and cries and cries for so long. Once he’s done -- and by done, he means that he’s still sniffling and tears are still leaking out but he’s not sobbing hysterically anymore -- Louis makes him sit up and drink most of a water bottle that he brings him. At first, Harry only drinks a few sips but Louis asks him to drink some more. As he does, Louis sits close by, one hand on his knee and the other on the back of his neck. He’s drunk over half the bottle when he sets it on the ground and leans forward to put his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He lets out a long, shaky sigh and shakes his head. 

“I just want to go to bed,” he whispers, voice hoarse. 

Louis squeezes his knee. “We should talk a bit before bed, no?”

“Tomorrow,” he says, standing up slowly. His joints protest a bit and Louis places steadying hands on his hips, just in case. Once he’s standing straight, he lets out another sigh and says, “I don’t really want to be awake right now.”

“God, don’t say that, please,” Louis whispers. Only now does Harry realize that Louis was crying, too, judging by how bloodshot his eyes are. “Don’t say that,” he repeats, voice just as weak as before. 

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I don’t care how you meant it,” Louis says, staring up at him. “Don’t say it.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees quietly. He leans down to grab Louis’ hand and pulls him up a bit. “Let’s just go to bed, okay? And we can talk tomorrow, promise.” 

Exhausted and heartbroken, Louis nods, mumbling a quiet, “Yeah, sure.” He follows Harry to their room, and he lays down in bed with him, and he holds him gently, but Harry’s got the feeling in his gut that he’s not really here with him at all. 

Out of everything that’s changed because of what Harry did, the thing he regrets most is hurting Louis worse than anybody’s ever hurt him before. Louis has to live every single day of his life knowing that Harry tried to willingly leave him and never see him again. And that’s got to hurt more than anything Harry’s been through. 

-

The following afternoon, Harry and Louis have a long, thorough discussion about pretty much everything. It’s a nice day outside, so they sit on the back porch while the dogs run around, entertaining themselves. They’re outside long enough that Harry’s got a splash of sunburn across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. 

“How are we going to keep you remembering that you haven’t lost everything?” is how Louis starts the conversation. He sounds distant. Guarded. 

Harry, who has one knee pulled up to his chest, the other leg resting on top of Louis’ lap, stares at the trees in their backyard. “I know I haven’t. I know I have people who love me.”

Louis makes an unhappy sound. “You still forget all the time, though. Last night you really sounded like you believed that you didn’t have anything left living for.”

“That’s not what I said,” Harry says, tone light, so he’s a little caught off guard when Louis shoots him a look and says, “Isn’t it, though? You said there was no point in getting better.”

Okay, he did say that. But that’s not what he meant. “All I meant by that is I went through a lot to get here and. . . ” He struggles to verbalize what he actually meant, so maybe that is what he meant. He takes a deep breath. “And sometimes it’s hard to believe I went through that all and still can’t have some things.”

Louis glances away without saying anything. He’s so fucking tense, and Harry can’t work out if it’s from anger or stress. 

“Louis,” Harry says, almost pleadingly. He needs to know.

“I feel like you’re not being entirely honest with me,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice. So he’s angry. That’s okay. He’s allowed to be upset, of course he is. 

“About what?”

There’s a small pause before Louis says, “I can’t tell if you’re happy to be here anymore. Before, I could see how relieved and determined you were, but now. . . now I feel a little more worried about running to the store really fast. We ran out of coffee this morning, so I got ready to go get some more so you’d have some when you woke up, but I ended up changing back into my pajamas because I didn’t feel comfortable enough leaving you alone.”

That doesn’t feel very fair. Harry’s been doing fine -- actually fine -- since he got on his antidepressants. He gets sad sometimes, but so does everybody else. It’s not right that Louis still doesn’t have any faith in him after all this time. But then again, Harry fully understands why. Louis trusted him once, allowing him to go to London on his own when he had a feeling something was wrong, and it was disastrous. Of course he doesn’t trust Harry. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed, not when what Harry did caused them both so much trauma. 

“I would never do that again, Louis,” Harry says slowly. He has to get him to believe him. “I’d never do that to you or myself again. Ever. I promise you that.”

Louis shrugs with a small scoff like Harry’s words mean nothing. “And I can’t ever believe that. I won’t ever take your word for it. Do you realize how shitty that feels?”

“Yes,” Harry says immediately. “I’ve given you a very good reason to doubt everything I do. I understand that. I fucked up, I know that. We’re never going to be the same because of what I did, I know that, too. And I know you can’t just believe me, but I swear to God I’d take it back if I could. In a heartbeat. Not even. . . not even because of what happened to me because of it, but because of how badly I hurt everyone else. I can’t stop thinking about how betrayed you probably felt. About how me doing that sent the message that I didn’t think you were enough to live for, which is. . . It makes me sick to my stomach to think that I made you feel like that.”

“I still feel like that,” Louis admits quietly. “That no matter what I do, it won’t be enough. Clearly I wasn’t enough before. It kind of feels like you’re going to be gone again, for good this time, and I’m just supposed to make you comfortable before you decide it’s time to leave."

It hurts so much to hear that. He’s near tears now. “You’re my favorite person in the entire world, Louis. I love you more than I love anybody else. I promise, I -- God, Louis, I _promise_ that you’re more than enough. At the hospital, I -- Louis, every single day I looked forward to seeing you again. I didn’t care about anybody else, I just wanted you. And when Claire first told me what I did, the first thing I thought was that there’s no way I would do that to you, because I loved you too much to do something like that. But I did, and I don’t know why, but I promise I would never put you through something like that ever again. I don’t care how upset I get, never for a second will I think about doing that again.”

Louis stares down at his hands quietly for a few minutes. He’s visibly upset, and Harry wants to comfort him so badly, wants to hear him say something else, but Harry won’t rush him. He can be just as patient as Louis’ always been with him. 

Finally, Louis says, voice small and weak, “How am I supposed to believe that? Half the time I’m convinced that you’ve gone and got yourself another gun from somewhere, or that there’s another one here that I don’t know about. I’m constantly paranoid, Harry.”

It hits Harry, then, that Louis is always cleaning. He’s always going through drawers and re-organizing them, going through closets and taking everything out only to put it back again, digging around in the cabinets. Harry hadn’t given it much thought; he just assumed Louis was bored. They go out more now, with friends and just by themselves, but they still stay home plenty. Harry didn’t think it was anything weird. 

“Is that why you’re always cleaning?” Harry asks quietly, hoping the answer is no. 

Louis rolls his eyes as he gazes up at the sky. “Yes. I’ve always wondered where you kept the last one. Maybe if I had ever bothered cleaning up a bit more, I would’ve found it.”

“Jesus, Louis. I hate that you blame yourself.”

“Who else is to blame?” Louis almost snaps, but he doesn’t look at him still. “I’m your fucking husband.”

“Blame _me_ ,” Harry tells him. “It’s _my_ fault. I didn’t ask for help. I let it get that far. I bought the gun, I planned it out, I executed it. You’re -- there’s absolutely nothing you could have done.”

“I could’ve saved you,” Louis whispers, tears shining in his eyes. 

Harry reels back like he’s been slapped. “You _did_ save me,” he says incredulously. This entire time, he’s been trying to avoid physically comforting Louis so they could talk about this without any distractions, but there’s no way he could stop himself from shifting around so he’s leaning into Louis, and he wraps his arms around one of Louis’. “If you hadn’t called Ben, I would be dead. So yes, Louis, you literally saved me. And love. . .” He goes quiet, unsure how to word this. “If you hadn’t been there to take care of me this entire time, I don’t know where I’d be right now.”

Louis doesn’t say anything. This time, Harry doesn’t find it in him to be so patient. “I love you,” Harry says. “I love my life with you. And I love myself enough to make sure I don’t throw away my second chance.”

Louis turns to look at Harry finally, and the tears in his eyes look like they’re going to fall at any second. “I love you, too,” he says, reaching up to cup Harry’s cheek. He drags his thumb across Harry’s cheekbone and gives him a flimsy smile. “Ben’s been saying I need to see a therapist for ages. I think he’s right.”

“And that’s okay,” Harry says. “You’ve gone through so much, Louis.” Only now does Harry realize that maybe he should’ve been in therapy a lot sooner. It’s been over three whole years of Louis dealing with this all by himself. 

“Come here, give me a cuddle.” Louis pulls Harry into him and Harry goes willingly, slotting himself on Louis’ lap like he fits and holding him close. They sit there for a while, maybe twenty minutes, before Louis starts talking again. 

“How upset are you about the tour?”

Immediately, Harry’s stomach drops. He frowns against the side of Louis’ neck and readjusts his hand so it’s laying on Louis’ stomach underneath his shirt. “A bit heartbroken,” he admits quietly. “But I think we both know that I can’t handle it. I don’t know why I let myself believe I could.”

Louis snorts. “Because your best friend and manager told you it’d be a good idea. And when you said no, he decided to go ahead and make it impossible to say no to him again.”

“It’s not Jeff’s fault, Louis.”

“It’s not not his fault.”

They leave it at that. 

-

-

Harry knew from the second that Louis said he’d never do music on his own that it wasn’t true. First of all, he knew better than that. He knew how much Louis loved writing songs and performing them. Second of all, he could picture Louis on stage by himself so clearly. Louis could do it. He deserved it. 

The two of them go to one of Niall’s concerts in Los Angeles. Without a VIP box, since it’s a smaller venue, which is okay. Harry doesn’t go on social media enough to care about what people are going to say about it. And the entire time Harry watches Niall on stage, he’s thinking that Louis deserves to look that happy. He deserves it so much. 

They plan on going to one of Liam’s shows not too long after that, but they cancel since Harry winds up having surgery two days before. It’s a long story. Or maybe it’s not: Harry’s wrist started to hurt, they got it checked by a doctor, and it turns out he needed surgery for it. His tendons were messed up or something, he still doesn’t even really know. It’s hard to care about a little boo-boo wrist that can be taken care of in a routine surgery that he doesn’t even have to be asleep for when he has gone through so much worse before. It’s almost laughable; during the surgery, Louis falls asleep and Harry watches shit reality TV. 

It’s so small to them that they’re both taken back by surprise with how huge of a deal the internet makes it out to be. Harry and Louis take a few pictures with some fans at a coffee shop one day, and not even an hour afterwards, #WeLoveHarry and #PrayforHarry are trending. Apparently, the bandage on his wrist could only mean that Harry has tried to commit suicide again, this time by slashing his wrist. It’s insulting and disgusting and ruins Harry and Louis’ entire day. 

They decide to ignore it, because Harry won’t break his social media silence to extinguish some stupid rumors. The only time he posts to social media anymore is to post about career-related things, or to commemorate the band’s anniversary, Louis’ birthday, and Mother’s Day. Occasionally, when he’s not feeling great, he’ll post a few mental health resources in case others aren’t feeling great either, but that’s it. He doesn’t even have Twitter downloaded on his phone anymore. 

The following day, he gets a text from Jeff saying that it’s gaining some traction and media sources are publishing articles speculating, too. It’s only the shitty ones, so it’s not critical that Harry intervenes yet. But the next day, he gets a concerned text from Kendall, making sure everything’s okay. He doesn’t answer it right away, because she’s in Spain for some reason and she texts him while he’s asleep, and one thing leads to another and she ends up calling Jeff while having a panic attack -- an actual bloody panic attack -- because she doesn’t know if it’s true or not and it’s too close to how it played out last time: her seeing something on social media about him being hurt, her calling him, him not answering. And he was actually hurt then, barely alive, so he doesn’t blame her for being so worried. It’s a shit thing to wake up to, though.

“I guess I have to post something, then,” Harry mumbles, rolling out of bed. He’ll have to take a shower and get dressed, because people are just going to speculate more if he doesn’t post a picture of himself. Which is stupid, but also how the world of Twitter operates. So he showers and gets dressed before Louis and Harry go outside to take a picture of them smiling with their thumbs up and Harry’s arm around Bruce. It’s a nice picture, which kind of sucks because it’s always going to be attached with the memory of having to do some stupid shit for the internet. 

_All good here. Just had some tight tendons that needed surgery. I’m okay and hope you are all okay too. Love, H._

“Are you sure it doesn’t sound stupid?” Harry asks, staring down at the unsent post. Louis’ standing on his toes so he can see it over Harry’s shoulder. 

“Your captions always sound stupid,” he says. “Thought that was your shtick.” He must be only joking because he reaches around and clicks Tweet so Harry won’t spend the next five minutes staring at it, wondering if his scar is too visible or if the thumbs up is too cheesy or if the caption is dumb. 

Once that’s taken care of, they can get back to their normal lives. 

“What are you doing today?” Harry asks as they cook breakfast together. Harry’s handling the actual cooking part while Louis does the stirring and mixing. “Anything exciting?”

Slowly, they’ve been spending a little time apart. Meaning that Louis goes out with his friends maybe once a month and Harry goes out for drives on his own when he wakes up first. It’s progress. And while Louis’ therapist wants them to try existing separately, he does acknowledge that both Louis and Harry are happy with it. It’s not like they’re driving each other nuts. It’s not toxic for them. 

“Um,” Louis starts. “Today or tomorrow I was planning on reaching out to Simon to maybe start thinking about doing something on my own. I wasn’t going to mention it until I talked to him, but. . .” He glances at Harry, looking guilty.

“That’s great,” he says. He means it, too. “But maybe don’t do it with Simon? Find someone else?” He lets out a tense laugh. “ _Anybody_ else, maybe?”

Louis gives him a look. “Who else is going to want to work with me?”

“Loads of people,” Harry says immediately. “Are you kidding? Louis, Niall and Liam got contracts with people immediately. So did Zayn. And, in case you forgot, we were all part of the same band.”

“It’s different.”

“It’s not,” Harry says, stern. “Let me talk to Jeff first, you hear me? I don’t think Simon would screw you over, so if you have to work with him, I think it’ll be fine, just. . . Let me see if you have other options.”

Louis rolls his eyes and goes back to stirring. “Why can’t _I_ call Jeff?”

“‘Cause you always hurt his feelings.”

Louis lets out a loud sigh and groans. “I’m always being _sarcastic_.”

“I’ll call him,” is all Harry says, and Louis mumbles something snarky under his breath before planting a firm kiss to Harry’s jaw. 

-

Every single time Harry sees someone else up on stage, he gets jealous. Of course he’s happy for them, and of course he’s having fun, but underneath that there’s a thick, hot pool of envy burning. But when he sees Louis on stage at his first show, he’s not jealous or bitter or sad. He’s just really fucking proud. So proud, he’s crying uncontrollably by the time Louis gets off stage, all sweaty and filled with adrenaline. Harry’s filled with adrenaline, too, albeit a different kind, and he pulls Louis into a bone-crushing hug as soon as possible. Louis laughs brightly in his ear when Harry hoists him up by his thighs and spins him around. 

“Jesus, Louis, you did so fucking good,” Harry breaths out into his ear. The way he’s feeling right now is insane. The only other time he’s felt like this is after he performed, which is. . . it doesn’t even matter, because Louis is amazing and he loves him so much. “I’m so proud of you, love, shit.”

And every single time Louis performs after that, they both feel the same exact way. It’s exhilarating for the both of them. They get to travel the world together like before, except Harry’s in the shadows, away from all the stressful bits. It’s probably the best time of his life, going on tour with Louis. And after a while, Harry starts picturing what his own tour would look like, and he can’t get the thought out of his head. He wants it all, even the stressful bits. He’s already got three albums out and under his belt; that’s more than enough to tour with. And he’s been doing so good, mentally and physically, that he really thinks he could handle it. 

Just like the last time, one thing leads to another. After Louis’ finished up with his tour and Harry brings it up for the first time, Louis says he doesn’t think it’s a bad idea. He says he wants Harry to do some test shows beforehand, and if those go fine, then Louis will have no qualms with Harry touring. 

He does a gimmicky Halloween show with Louis as his opener. It goes over brilliantly; he’s nervous, of course he is, but he does bloody fantastic. After that, he does a Christmas show, and he smashes that, too. Not even for an instant does it feel any type of bad. So Jeff and the rest of Harry’s team get a medium-sized tour booked for him, tickets go on sale and sell out in minutes, and then Harry’s standing backstage in London for the first show of his tour, and he’s far more nervous than he had been either times before. So nervous that Louis keeps telling him that they can pull the plug on the whole thing and everybody will understand. But Harry can’t accept failure without at least trying, so he forces himself to get out on stage, and it goes just as fantastic as before. 

The entire tour, he’s on top of the world. He’s energized and beaming and excited all of the time, and so is Louis, and it’s so nice, it’s fucking amazing. All his friends come out and see him, and he gets good reviews from critics, and it’s -- it’s just really fucking great. He cries tears of joy all the fucking time. All the fucking time.

Of course, Harry tries his absolute best to keep himself feeling this great all the time. He has a therapist with him on tour, he works out at least four times a week and makes sure he’s sleeping well, and he meditates every morning, no matter how hectic his schedule is. He continues taking his antidepressants. In order for him to have this all, he needs to keep himself in check, and he does a bloody good job at it. 

The tour ends without a single terrible thing happening the entire time. There are some days that he isn’t as chipper, but that’s just life. That’s to be expected. So he’s able to honestly say he had an amazing time on tour, and that he’d love to do it again. 

They force themselves to settle down at home for about a year before Louis goes out on tour again. It’s a smaller number of shows this time, strictly because Harry’s next tour is due to start a month before Louis’ ends. Harry’s people didn’t want to change it, and Louis didn’t want Harry by himself longer than a month, so they made it work. 

Again, both tours go amazing. Again, Harry has the time of his life. Even when Louis wasn’t with him, he did okay. He was more anxious and unsettled than usual, admittedly, and he felt nauseous nearly all the time, but it was okay. He got through it fine. And when Louis’ back with him, he feels amazing again, so Harry’s not concerned. There’s nothing to be concerned about; they’re both doing amazing. 

A few years later, seven years after Harry’s suicide attempt, Harry’s on his second tour alone. As much fun as it was to keep chasing each other around the world, sometimes it’s not practical. Like right now, when they’ve just adopted a new puppy who’s skittish and won’t stop peeing everywhere and eating everything. It’s not right to leave Pepper alone -- and no, it’s not a stupid name, Harry’s very much content with it -- when she’s new to their family and hasn’t had a long enough period of adjustment. So Harry goes it alone, and neither of them are worried about it. He stayed home by himself when Louis went on tour the last time and that went over smoothly, so neither of them are prepared for just how hard Harry falls. 

It starts off small. Harry’s nervous -- of course he is. He’s a little unsettled by Louis not being with him -- of course he is. And that nauseating, jittery feeling is back, which Harry copes with by himself for a while. For as long as he can, until it starts to do his head in and he admittedly has maybe too much to drink every night. It’s just to help him sleep better, and he’s getting drunk by himself in his hotel room, which he convinces himself is better than any alternative. And even though it’s not exactly healthy, Harry’s still doing fine. He’s still going strong and having loads of fun. 

He tells himself that for as long as he possibly can. When the time comes that he can’t fully believe it anymore, he’s sitting out on a balcony overlooking Germany at four o’clock in the morning. And when he admits that there’s a small voice in the back of his head saying, _jump, jump, jump, you could just jump, just do it,_ he doesn’t worry about it because he’s learned to identify intrusive thoughts. Those aren’t his real thoughts or desires, so he pushes it to the side to make room for what he’s actually feeling, which is raw, heavy sorrow. 

He’s so sad. He’s so fucking sad. He hasn’t felt this sad in so long, and now here he is, sniffling to himself quietly in Germany with a head full of hurt and a stomach full of liquor. He’s mostly sober now, but still. He’s still so sad.

He pushes through a week of feeling absolutely terrible before finally having enough. He’s in France now, on another balcony, running on two hours of sleep from the night before but not being able to fall asleep now. It’s five o’clock in the morning when he decides that he needs -- not wants, _needs_ \-- to talk to Louis. 

It’s four o’clock in London where Louis is, so Harry’s not all too surprised when he doesn’t answer his phone. It does make him panic, though, so he calls again. He _needs_ to hear Louis’ voice right now, he _needs_ it. And when Louis picks up, sounding immediately concerned and far too alert for so early in the morning, something in Harry gives and he ends up crying barely ten seconds into the call. 

“Harry.” Louis sounds so worried. “Talk to me, baby. What’s going on?”

Harry rubs his cheek on the sleeve of his sweater and takes as deep of a breath as he can. Theodore, who has been travelling with him on every tour, is unfortunately inside and Harry doesn’t want to get up right now. “I -- um. I’m not doing so great, Louis. I don’t -- I don’t feel good anymore.” He sounds so fragile even to himself that he can’t be upset or critical with how fast Louis is concerned about him. 

“Where are you?” he asks, sounding panicked.

Harry closes his eyes. “My hotel room.”

“Okay,” he breathes out. “Okay. Are you -- and please, please be honest with me, baby, I won’t be mad or disappointed or anything like that -- are you feeling like you might want to hurt yourself?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. ‘M just really sad.”

“You said you weren't feeling good. What’d you mean by that?”

Harry sniffles quietly, still crying steadily. “I’m just sad. And exhausted. I haven’t been able to sleep much lately. And I’m fucking freezing.”

“Turn the heat on then, love. I’m sure there’s a thermostat somewhere.”

“I’m on the balcony. Wanted some fresh air.”

“Harry,” Louis says, sounding absolutely terrified. “Get inside for me.”

That makes Harry cry harder. He tucks his face in the crook of his elbow and lets out a soft sob. “I’m not going to hurt myself,” he cries. “I’m not. I just wanted some fresh air, Louis. That’s all.”

Louis doesn’t back down. “Get inside, H.”

“Louis -- ”

“Jesus Christ, Harry, get inside or I swear to God I’ll call hotel security on you.” He must regret threatening him, because barely a second afterward, he’s all gentle and patient. “I’m sorry, love, but I’d feel a lot better if you were inside. Please just listen to me. Please, babe.”

“Okay,” he croaks out, standing up. He gets inside and closes the door, but he doesn’t go for the bed. He leans against the glass door, wondering what the hell is wrong with him. “I can go to Mitch’s room if you want. If that would make you feel better. I’m not going to hurt myself, I don’t _want_ to hurt myself and haven’t even thought about it, but if that’ll make you feel better, I can go to his room. He won’t mind.”

Louis lets out a little sigh of relief. “Yes, love. I think I’d like that. It’s not -- it’s not because I don’t trust you, okay? I trust you. I just would feel better if you weren’t alone.”

“Okay. Give me a second. He’s on the floor beneath mine.”

“That’s fine, love. I can wait.”

Just like Harry assumed, Mitch isn’t weird about it at all. He acts like Harry knocking on his door at five in the morning, visibly upset and crying, is normal. Like this isn’t the first time this has happened. When Harry hoarsely asks if it’d be okay if he stays in his room for a bit, Mitch says yes like it’s nothing. He shuts the door behind Harry and crawls back into bed, although he doesn’t go back to sleep, while Harry lays down on the couch. With the way he’s balled up on the couch, Mitch can’t see him. Harry wishes there was a way that Mitch couldn’t hear him, either, but that’s unavoidable. 

“Okay,” he says into the phone, and cringes at how his voice carries in the room. Like he can read his mind, Harry hears Mitch shuffling around a bit before the unmistakable noise of earbuds clanking together as he tries to untangle them. Harry waits a minute, wanting to be sure that Mitch has his earbuds in, before saying anything else. “I’m sorry for scaring you,” he says. He keeps his voice low, still paranoid that Mitch might hear him. “I promise I haven’t thought about hurting myself, but. I needed to talk to you.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you called me. That you’re being honest with me.”

Harry closes his eyes. “I haven’t been doing as good as I normally am this entire tour, I haven’t been able to sleep very well, but I didn’t think -- I was ignoring it because it was still okay, but this past week I’ve been so fucking sad, Louis, so sad, I don’t. . . I don’t know why.”

“How sad?”

“I haven’t felt this sad in ages.”

“I’m sorry, love.” He sounds all soft and caring now, the fear out of his voice. He still sounds worried, but less terrified. It makes Harry feel a little better. “Do you think you’re depressed? Or is it not that severe, do you think?” Harry doesn’t answer right away, struggling to figure out the right answer to that. “It’s okay if you don’t know,” Louis tells him, and Harry nods to himself, his cheek rubbing against the couch. 

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, that’s okay. Have you talked to your therapist?”

This time around, and a few times before this, instead of having a therapist physically on tour with him, he just calls Claire twice during the week. More, if he needs. Well, he’s supposed to call more if he needs to. He hasn’t been doing that. 

“I talked to her a few days ago, but I didn’t -- I wasn’t very honest with her. I didn’t want anyone to know I was sad again. Which is dumb, I know, and I’m sorry.” He yawns, then, and it catches him by surprise so he doesn’t have time to pull the phone away beforehand. Louis makes a sad sound. 

“How much sleep have you gotten tonight?”

Harry rubs at his eyes and stifles another yawn. “Haven’t slept yet. I couldn’t, I don’t know why. I only got, like, two hours of sleep last night.”

Louis lets out a soft sigh. “What time do you have to be up today?”

“I think my soundcheck is at four o’clock. I was supposed to go out for breakfast with some of the crew at nine, though.”

“Cancel on them so you can get some sleep, okay?”

He should feel more guilty than he does, agreeing to that so quickly. 

“Love,” Louis starts. “Do you think you can lay down for a bit, try to get some sleep, or do you still want to talk for a bit? Either way is perfectly okay with me, but I want to make sure you get some sleep.”

Harry thinks it over before saying, “I think I could fall asleep now. I hope so, anyway.”

“Okay. Okay, that’s good. I want you to call me first thing when you wake up, though, okay? And stay with Mitch, in case you need someone to talk to. I’m going to try and see how quickly I can get to you. You’re in the Netherlands next, right? Amsterdam?”

“Yeah, but Louis -- ” he’s about to say he doesn’t have to come, that Harry will be fine without him, but he’s not so sure that’s true. “I’m in Milan in two days. Don’t rush to get to Amsterdam. If you can’t make it, it’s okay.”

“I’ll be there. It’s not a problem. All I have to do is drop the dogs off with someone and get a flight. It’s not going to be a problem.”

Fresh tears gather in Harry’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Louis.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, okay? I love you. You know I love you. And you know I’ll do anything for you.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees shakily, although he’s not entirely sure what he’s agreeing too. He’s exhausted. 

“Get some sleep for me, okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll try.”

There’s a small pause, and then a shaky, “I love you, H.”

“I love you, too.”

“Be safe, okay?”

His stomach churns, and two tears slide down his cheeks. “I will. You, too.”

“I will be. Have sweet dreams for me, okay?”

“Okay,” he says. “Bye, Louis.”

“Bye, H.”

Harry’s the one to disconnect the call, and as soon as he does, he feels so. . . so not okay, is all he can really think. He just needs Louis. Or maybe he needs what Louis gives him: a sense of security, love, affection. The closest thing Harry’s ever felt to peace. So he texts Louis a simple, _Thank you for looking after me._ He quickly closes his phone and flips it so it’s face down and he can’t see the light from Louis’ response. It comforts him knowing that there’s a text on his phone waiting for him. A piece of Louis that he gets to wake up to. 

He’s half-asleep on the couch when Mitch kicks at the side of the couch. “Hey,” he says softly. “Don’t sleep on the couch. You can have the bed.”

Harry stares at him through sleepy eyes. “I’m not gonna make you sleep on the couch.”

“Then we can both sleep on the bed. It’s big enough. Just -- come on.”

Since there’s no point in arguing, Harry gets up and follows Mitch to the bed. He slides into the side that isn’t as messed up from Mitch and gets comfortable. Tries to, anyway. It’s hard to feel comfortable when he’s so uncomfortable in his own skin. Mitch gets back into bed, too, and there’s a few awkward seconds of silence. 

“You’re good, right?” he asks. 

Harry nods against the pillow. “I’ll be fine. Louis’ going to come see me tomorrow, so.”

“Okay,” Mitch says. Harry thinks he says something after that, but he’s too tired to process it, and then he’s asleep. 

-

He sleeps for two and a half hours, which isn’t nearly enough and he’s so nauseous the entire day that when soundcheck comes around, he has no energy and kind of just wants to cry. He’s already feeling irritable, and getting shit sleep makes that worse, and he’s trying not to be a burden on anyone, trying to keep his head down and just do his job, but he’s seconds away from exploding. For some reason, Harry’s stupid guitar won’t connect right to the speakers. He’s trying to be patient and understanding and calm, he’s trying so fucking hard to be calm, but it’s hard. 

What makes him feel exponentially worse is that Louis’ on a plane right now, so Harry can’t even call him. He’s going to be landing in three hours; he had to get a connecting flight, which takes a lot longer than a nonstop one would be. A few hours ago, Harry thought that was fine. He felt decent when he was talking to Louis, so he thought he could handle it, but now he doesn’t know anymore. This morning, he was sure there would be no need to cancel the show, but now. . . 

He’s going to perform tonight. He will. He’ll feel so much worse if he doesn’t. It’s just a lot to think about. 

“Try it again,” a tech says, for the fifth or sixth time. Harry does, he strums a note on the guitar, and the speakers still aren’t picking it up. A vicious, hot anger explodes in his chest, and he’s so sure he would have snapped at someone if Sarah hadn’t come and put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Mitch will stay while they figure it out,” she tells him. She’s using that tone where she doesn’t want to hear any disagreement. “Come and sit with me in your dressing room. Maybe you can get a few minutes of sleep.”

“I’m fine,” he says, but he hands Mitch the guitar anyway. She rubs at his shoulder before gently steering him to the direction of the dressing room. The entire way there, he feels so stupid, so small and so weak and so pathetic. So exposed. And that doesn’t change when he’s in his room, either, or when he lays down on the sofa and cuddles a couch pillow. He feels so stupid, like he’s being such a fucking baby. But there’s another part of him that is panicking, because maybe he’s not being a baby, maybe this is how he was feeling before he decided to kill himself. Maybe he can’t trust himself anymore. 

“We can cancel the show,” Sarah says, and immediately, Harry tells her no. She doesn’t argue with him on it, so Harry stays quiet, curled up in a ball on the couch and staring straight forward. Even though he’s this tired, he can’t sleep. 

When he has tears running down his cheeks, out of exhaustion and frustration more than anything, Sarah places a light hand on his hip and asks what he needs. 

“I just want to talk to Louis,” he says, voice tiny. He feels lost inside of himself, like he’s shrunk and his skin doesn’t fit anymore. 

“You should be able to talk to him before the show if his flight lands on time,” she tells him, and it makes him feel a little bit better. It gives him something to hold onto. “Is there anybody else you want to talk to now, though?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to worry anyone.”

“Harry.” She sounds stern again. “This is about you, not anybody else. If someone can make you feel better, you should call them. I’m sure they’d love to help.”

His mum and Gemma and Ben and Jeff and Kendall would all be far too worried about him. It’d be cruel to call him when he’s feeling this poorly. And his brain does that thing where it makes him think that he's got nobody, that he has no friends and nobody actually cares about him, and it’s so _frustrating_. He _does_ have friends, he has loads of them. 

But Nick would be weird about it. Harry would make him uncomfortable. Alexa might be too harsh on him. Not meaning to be, of course, but he’s feeling awfully delicate. He can’t take tough love right now. And he hasn’t talked to Liam or Zayn in ages. Maybe he could call Niall. Niall could probably make him feel better. And he almost works up the courage to do it, too, but it gets squashed when he thinks about having to explain that he’s not doing well. 

“I don’t think I want to talk to anyone right now,” he says, even though it’s a bit of a lie. Sarah doesn’t push him on it, and he continues to lay there, feeling so wrong that he doesn’t remember what it’s like to feel right. 

-

The show goes over so normally that it genuinely scares him. No fucking wonder nobody noticed anything the last time or at all this past week; it’s like there’s a switch inside of his head that he can flip and just be fucking _fine_. He’s all smiles and jokes, and he sings fine and dances normally. He acts completely unfazed while on the inside, he feels so dark and depressed and anxious. While on stage, he feels like he’s two different people, like he’s two separate bodies at once. 

He fakes it and he makes it, and then he’s walking off the stage. As soon as he’s behind the curtains, it’s like that switch can’t take being turned on anymore and it abruptly shuts off, sparks flying, and he doesn’t feel apart of his body anymore, but he recognizes that he feels hotter than normal and like total garbage, and he’s panicking silently, trying to figure out what’s happening to him. And then he throws up, which makes a lot of sense, actually. He hasn’t thrown up in a long time, so he forgot what it feels like. He can’t breathe out of his mouth as he pukes, and it makes him panic that much more but he tries to remember how to breathe out of his nose and stay calm. There’s gentle hands on him, rubbing his arms and back and telling him he’s okay, and for a second he can pretend that it’s Louis. Just for a second, because then he’s done and opening his eyes and it’s just Sarah. 

“Jesus Christ,” he croaks out, sitting back on his heels. He couldn’t even get to a trash can in time, so he’s gone and vomited all over the floor. Good thing it’s not carpeted, he thinks, kind of hysterically. 

“Feel better, mate?” Adam asks, laughing. He probably hasn’t been filled in on Harry’s somewhat questionable mental state. It’s okay; Harry kind of wants to keep it that way. So Harry gives him a weak smile and nods, and when Adam extends a hand out to him, he takes it and lets himself be helped up. 

-

He talks to Louis on FaceTime for hours that night. From the minute he gets settled in the tour bus at ten o’clock at night to literally the next morning. They disconnect the call at nine twenty-six in the morning, when Harry’s on his way to the hotel room in Milan. There’s a half hour left before he gets to the hotel, and he has to get a few things in order. 

It’s not like they talk for twelve hours straight. They mostly just exist on opposite sides of the screen. For the most part, Harry watches TV while Louis messes around on his laptop. Harry falls asleep for a few hours, too, and Louis tells him that he fell asleep for an hour as well, but Harry doesn’t buy it. It’s just nice having Louis right there, and if Louis doesn’t mind it, well. Harry’s not going to deprive himself from the one thing that makes him feel tethered to reality.

Something deep inside of Harry settles into place when he unlocks the hotel room door and sees Louis stretched out on the bed, tapping at his phone. He feels so bloody relieved getting to see him in person; so relieved that Harry wonders if that’s all this was about. Maybe he was just really missing Louis. But he knows better than that, so he pushes the thought down. He shuts the door, kicks off his shoes, goes to the bed, and slots himself beside Louis, curling into his side. 

“My little love,” Louis mumbles against the top of his head. “I’ve missed you.”

Harry, too overwhelmed and emotional to talk, presses against him further. 

They stay like that for a long time, melted into each other. It’s familiar and warm in Louis’ arms, it’s the only place he’s wanted to be for the last few days. It makes him feel safe and sane and loved, and he’s not surprised that he manages to fall asleep for six straight hours, the longest he’s managed to sleep in over a week. When he wakes, it’s to Louis softly tracing random shapes underneath Harry’s shirt and staring at the TV. Harry doesn’t open his eyes at first, trying to work out what’s on. _Masterchef,_ he realizes, and then turns over on his stomach so he tuck his face against Louis’ rib cage better. Louis makes a noncommittal noise before adjusting his hand so his fingers are draped over Harry’s hip. 

“Hi, darling,” Louis says, smiling softly at him. He doesn’t look insanely worried, which is good. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay.”

Louis’ fingers press down harder against his hip. “You sure?”

Harry nods. He feels okay right now. More okay than he has in a while, equally due to Louis being here and getting decent sleep. “Fine for right now,” he says. “I promise, Louis. You can trust me.”

“I _do_ trust you,” Louis argues half-heartedly. He presses a kiss to the top of Harry’s head and sits up, jostling Harry a bit. “If I order you room service, are you going to eat it?”

Since he hasn’t eaten as much as he probably should have lately, he agrees. Harry says he’s craving pancakes, not realizing that it’s almost four in the afternoon, so Louis spends a good ten minutes bargaining with the hotel clerk in order to get Harry the pancakes. It’s a breakfast item, and it stopped running on the menu at noon, for everyone who isn’t as persuasive and stubborn as Louis Tomlinson. 

Harry eats the pancakes, watches a few hours of TV with Louis, and then showers. He doesn’t have a show tonight, but he does have one tomorrow. As he showers, making sure to keep the door unlocked to ease some of Louis’ nerves, he thinks that maybe it really was just missing Louis. He feels okay now, if only a little overwhelmed, which is a huge contrast from all of this week. All of last night, and the night before. 

Just as they get ready for bed, though, Harry starts to feed bad again. Drained and anxious and like there’s a crushing weight on his body. He snuggles up against Louis, hoping that’ll work. It helps, it always helps, but it doesn’t erase the feeling. And when Louis falls asleep during the TV program they were watching, he feels so much worse, so much more alone. He tries to fall asleep, too, hoping that he can avoid dealing with this altogether, but he’s not that lucky. He can’t fall asleep, not even with Louis right next to him, and it sucks. It sucks so fucking bad. Why is he _like_ this? He’s been doing all the right things for years, he’s been medicated for so long, so why?

It takes two hours to convince himself it’s okay to wake Louis up, that he won’t be irritated. Two hours of fighting back tears and clenching his eyes shut, trying so hard to fall asleep. Two hours of wondering what he did wrong to cause a fall this hard after so long. 

“Louis,” he whispers, sitting up. The lamp’s still on. Harry didn’t get up to turn it off because he didn’t want to wake Louis by moving around, but here he is. Pushing at Louis gently and whispering his name. It doesn’t take long for him to wake up; slowly, at first, and once he realizes Harry needs him, he sits up, much more alert. 

“What’s wrong, H?” Louis asks, running his fingers through Harry’s hair.

Harry lets out a shaky sigh. “I don’t know,” he says, and well. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it. 

-

Three weeks later, nothing’s changed. If anything, it’s gotten worse. He’s eighty-percent done with his tour -- Louis did the math -- and he doesn’t know if he can finish. He really doesn’t. Almost every night he has to put his all into being someone he’s not, and it’s exhausting. Louis gets a prescription for sleeping pills sorted, and those help Harry sleep, thank God, but even with the extra few hours of sleep, he feels like crap. Almost every day he talks to Claire, and it’s not really helping. The only thing that makes him feel better from their conversations is knowing that he’s not being overdramatic. He genuinely feels ill, even though he knows it’s a mental problem and not a physical one. 

He gets off the stage in Melbourne, and once he’s in the dressing room, he swears to Louis that he’s never going to do it again, that he can’t take it and it feels like he’s losing his mind. Louis gets him calmed down, and after a long, hot shower, Louis asks him if he seriously wants to postpone the rest of the tour, and Harry looks down at the floor and tells him no. 

“Are you sure?” Louis asks him, rubbing his shoulders. “Because not even an hour ago you sounded certain you were done. It’s okay if you are, babe. We can just postpone the rest of the shows until you’re feeling better.”

“No, Lou, it’s okay. I can do it. I’m almost done.”

But two days later in Auckland, he almost can’t get through the show. He feels himself slipping, can feel that switch starting to give way, and it’s. . . terrifying. He’s not even halfway through the setlist when he starts to seriously consider how to stop the show without causing chaos. But somehow, some way, he pulls it off. He gets through the show seamlessly, which is great and all, but it doesn’t feel as great when he’s sitting in his dressing room feeling so empty and numb, wanting to cry but not being able to. 

“You’re overworking yourself, love,” Louis whispers to him, rubbing his back. “I’m going to call Jeff tonight and tell him that you’re done, alright? That you can’t do it anymore. We can get the other shows postponed no problem, babe.”

“People are going to be so mad at me,” Harry says, and it’s so scary how his voice doesn’t even sound normal to him anymore. He feels so faded, like every piece of himself is shrinking and eventually vanishing entirely.

“No. Nobody’s going to be mad.”

But tour dates are the type of thing that people wait ages for, that keep some people motivated and sane. Maybe people won’t be mad, but they’ll definitely be disappointed. And _he’ll_ be mad at himself. For not being able to finish something he started. For not being able to keep himself in check for a few months. 

He’d be more mad at himself if he let himself be backed into an even darker corner than he already is, though. 

His heart is racing and his head feels light when he whispers, “Promise?” Louis pulls him against his chest and rubs his arm, kisses his temple. 

“I promise, sweetheart.”

They manage to get a plane back to Los Angeles not even five hours later.

\------------

_**HARRY STYLES ANNOUNCES POSTPONEMENT OF SHOWS IN EMOTIONAL TWEET: ‘I’M SORRY’, ‘I HAVE TO TAKE CARE OF MYSELF’, ‘I HOPE YOU ALL UNDERSTAND’** _

**_CLICK HERE TO FIND OUT THE *REAL* REASON HARRY STYLES CANCELLED HIS TOUR!_ **

**_HARRY STYLES & LOUIS TOMLINSON SPOTTED ON A DATE NIGHT WEEKS AFTER STYLES ANNOUNCES THE POSTPONEMENT OF HIS TOUR_ **

**_INSIDER REPORTS THAT HARRY STYLES HAS ALLEGEDLY BEEN DIAGNOSED WITH DEPRESSION, ANXIETY FOLLOWING THE EARLY END OF HIS TOUR_ **

\------------

Harry heals. Bounces back, recharges, figures his shit out -- whatever you want to call it, that’s what happens. It takes two months of back to back to back shitty days, days where he’s so hurt that it just about swallows him up, but he gets through it. Two months of a strict sleeping schedule, sleeping pills, an increase in the dosage of his antidepressants, self-care and a very loving, very patient husband is what he needs, and it’s what he gets. 

Once he starts to feel a little better, a little clearer, he can’t help but wonder if that’s all he needed before. That if he would have taken a step back, invited help, and took care of himself properly, he would have been able to get through whatever that plagued him so much that he didn’t think he could live through it. It’s so hard to think about, to realize that he most likely could have avoided a world of hurt if he had just believed in himself and life a little bit more, so he tries not to. 

The only thing better than not feeling like absolute shit all of the time is that Louis starts to calm down again. Since Harry called him that first night, through the weeks of him hurting, Louis’ been tense and nervous and so, so worried. He’s been refusing to go out by himself, so either Harry has to come with him or he’ll have someone get whatever he needs for him. Today, while Harry is asleep, Louis leaves real fast to run to the store to pick up some tea. Harry wakes up to the noise of the door shutting, and he smiles to himself. If Louis trusts him on his own again, that’s a good sign. 

Pepper, who’s now fully grown and a bed hog worse than the other two, wakes up, too. She’s curled behind Harry’s legs and makes an unhappy huffing nose as she stands, walks in a circle a few times, and then lays back down in the same exact spot as before. Harry gives her a scratch on the head before getting out of bed and dragging himself to the kitchen so he can start breakfast. He wants to show Louis that he’s not going to hurt himself the minute he’s left unattended. 

When Louis returns home to see Harry staring tiredly at the back of the box of pancake mix, he smiles softly at him and drops a kiss to his shoulder. “I love you,” he says, and it sounds more charged than normal, so Harry turns around and gives him a proper kiss and says that he loves him, too. So much. 

To make sure Harry continues to feel healthy, they wait three months before posting any confirmed new dates for the shows he couldn’t make. He’s incredibly nervous about it, so scared that everybody who wanted to come originally won’t come anymore, but of course that doesn’t happen.

Finishing up the tour goes over smoothly. Louis’ with him this time around, so he goes out and explores the cities more, when time is letting. He doesn’t have too many off days, and he doesn’t feel so disconnected while performing. It no longer feels like he has to pretend. And although it’d be impossible to tell otherwise, nobody in the audience seems annoyed that they had to wait for him longer than originally planned to. Completing those last handful of shows allows him to fully believe for the first time that people do genuinely want him to put himself first. That they aren’t just saying that and getting mad at him the second he has to actually do that. It’s such a relief, knowing that if this ever happens in the future, he won’t have to be so apprehensive about taking a step back when he needs to. 

-

-

“And you’ve not been having any issues with your mobility? Everything still seems fine?”

After all these years, Dr. Eva’s office remains almost exactly the same. Same chair, same clipboard, same coat. She’s aged a bit, of course, but she’s still kind and understanding. The office’s lighting hasn’t gotten any dimmer, either. 

“Yeah, everything’s good,” he says, nodding. 

“Are you still walking with a limp?”

“Barely, but yes.”

She smiles at that. “And you’re still seeing your therapist?”

“Of course,” he says. “I mean, not Claire anymore. She’s changed professions. But yes, I’m seeing someone still. Frequently. Twice a month, more when I need it.”

“That’s good to hear, Harry. Really.” She writes something down before putting her pen down, and then she looks back up at him. “I think this is the first appointment in ten years that Louis isn’t here for. Can I ask if everything’s okay?”

He lets out a nervous, awkward laugh at that. “Yes, of course,” he says. He raises his left hand and wiggles his fingers. “Still married. Still fine. He stayed in Los Angeles this time. He had some radio show to do.”

“Okay, that’s good. It’s not often that I see you two separate, is all. Got worried for a second there.”

He smiles at her and shakes his head. “No, we’re fine. Great, even. Sometimes he still doesn’t like me coming to London by myself, for obvious reasons. So no, we’re good.”

He’d been texting Louis as he waited for Dr. Eva to see him. Harry’s flying back to California tonight, and they’re going to have a movie night tomorrow. Louis gets to pick the movie, so Harry gets to pick the snacks. It’s a fair trade, and Harry’s looking forward to it. 

“That’s great,” she says, standing up. She shakes his hand and tells him that he’s all set to go, and he thanks her and leaves. He won’t have to see her for another year. 

When he gets home, he changes into the clothes he plans on wearing for the plane ride. He doesn’t have a clean pair of socks, because he somehow forgot to pack the match to the sock he planned on wearing on the flight back home. He always ends up doing that somehow. He decides to do some laundry before he leaves, so he won’t be wearing dirty socks or having dirty clothes in his bag for hours. He walks up the stairs, hand firm on the railing, and goes to the middle door. He pulls the door open and puts his laundry in the washer. As he waits for them to be cleaned, he shuts the door, walks downstairs, and calls Louis to see if he’s decided what movie he picked for them to watch when he gets home. 

-

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed reading!! leave a comment if you feel like it :)


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